EPISODE VII: The Dark Reborn
by Tathrin
Summary: On the brink of peace between the Empire and the New Republic, an old darkness returns from the Unknown Regions to plunge the galaxy once more into war and threaten to tear the Solo-Skywalker family apart. (An alternate take on the Sequel Trilogy that incorporates more of the old Expanded Universe in its foundations, featuring familiar faces from both new and old canon alike.)
1. Chapter One

**EPISODE VII  
****THE DARK REBORN**

The Galactic Empire has fallen. After forty  
years fighting a lingering but inevitable defeat  
following the Battle of Endor, the Empire has agreed  
to surrender. In a show of good faith, the NEW REPUBLIC  
has pulled all but ceremonial remnants of their fleet away from  
Coruscant, their galactic capital, for the treaty signing. Now dignitaries  
from the two governments meet to usher in a new era of peace and freedom  
for the galaxy, unaware of the dark threat approaching from the unknown regions…

**CORUSCANT: 40 YEARS ABE**

Out of the blackness of space comes a glittering jewel of a world, its entire surface covered in layer after layer of towering cityscape. The world is Coruscant, and from this distance it looks small and alone without the interstellar traffic that ought to be dancing around it. Today, this bustling hub of the galaxy has been reduced to hosting one meager _Lambda- _class shuttle soaring in from the black depths of space—a late arrival for today's ceremony.

All of the preparations for the momentous event are completed, all of the other participants already in place. Bunting in intermingled gray, white, red, and orange flaps in the breeze over a large central square many stories up from the squalid depths of Coruscant's underlevels. The square is empty of sentients at the moment, although a table with two chairs sits waiting for occupants. Behind it flutter two tall banners, one displaying the chilling encircled gears that symbolize the Galactic Empire and the other the stylized upswept-wings emblem of the New Republic. Cheering and jeering crowds fill the surrounding streets, balconies, and walkways, although all speeder traffic is being kept at a distance by determined security forces. The two delegations of officials clustered on either side of the empty square are much quieter, some faces stoic and others jubilant, while they wait for the start of the ceremony that will end this long war at last.

The shuttle banks languidly over the crowd below and settles at a nearby landing pad which already holds two other _Lambda _-shuttles, twelve TIE interceptors, and a boxier cousin of the _Lambda _designed for the transport of troops. On the opposite side of the square another landing pad holds a squadron of X-Wing fighters, their paint fresh and gleaming, with the signature red stripes of Rogue Squadron emblazoned across their sides. There are no shuttles on this landing pad, but a number of landspeeders nestle around the X-Wings like an admiring crowd. Security officers and drivers sit and stand among the Republic landspeeders; the Imperial landing pad is deserted except for the ships, although glimmers of motion behind the transparisteel of their viewport indicate that the pilots of the transports remain within.

The new arrival disgorges only a small complement of two stormtroopers and one gray-clad Imperial officer, who strides out a little faster than dignity should permit at such an ostentatious occasion. The stormtroopers follow close on her heels, a ceremonial escort, their blasters held low across their chests with the safeties engaged.

The young officer hurries to join her fellow Imperials, of whom there are several: twelve TIE pilots all in black, helmets on; a twenty-four-strong detachment of gleaming white stormtroopers; six men and women in their middle ages, all human, wearing stiff gray uniforms and bright rank bars; one void-black protocol droid whose insectoid head clashes discordantly with its humanoid body; and one elderly man clad all in white. He stands well ahead of the rest of the delegation, his lined face impassive beneath its generous white mustache. The colorful rank insignia on his voluminous chest is dwarfed by the impressive collection of medals and battle tags that surround it.

The new arrival hurries through the crowd, leaving her stormtroopers to fall into line alongside their fellow troops, and comes to a panting halt at the old man's side. She salutes crisply.

For a long moment, the white-clad man-Grand Admiral Pellaeon, Supreme Commander of the forces of the Imperial Remnant-does not acknowledge her. He is an elderly man with a portly belly, broad shoulders, and plump cheeks. His white hair is wispy and receding but his brows are heavy and his mustache thick. He stands stiff-backed and firm despite his age, his posture still Imperial Academy-perfect despite long decades of war, hardship, and loss. His eyes, which are fixed on the New Republic delegation standing across the way, are still bright and clear.

After a long, stiff moment, he jerks his chin in a nod and says, "Report."

_" _Everything is in readiness, Grand Admiral, sir," the young officer says. Her voice is grim, heavy; the voice of a soldier carrying out portentous orders. "You may begin the ceremony at your convenience."

Pellaeon nods, even less enthusiastically than before. "Well then," he says quietly, "let us try and end it with dignity at least, shall we?"

The young officer looks confused. "Sir?" she says.

Pellaeon shakes his head. "Never mind, lieutenant. Never mind. You'll understand one day...perhaps."

Without giving the bewildered young officer time to sort out a response, Pellaeon gives himself a little shake, straightens his shoulders still further, raises his chin, and strides forward. The stormtroopers stay where they are but the officers move to follow their admiral, the young lieutenant trailing at the back of the group. She looks uncomfortable among so many generals, admirals, and Moffs.

Pellaeon does not look back at them. His bootheels click crisply on the immaculate permacrete surface and his sharp eyes do not waver from their fixed point in the center of the New Republic delegation walking to meet him from the other side of the square.

That delegation moves more slowly, the woman leading them looking much frailer than the robust Grand Admiral although she is also clad in white. Her long robes billow around her skeletally-thin frame and she leans heavily on the arm of a blue-clad Gotal male as she walks, as though too weak to support her own weight. Her gaze, however, is as steady as Pellaeon's, and she has a small smile on her lined face despite the physical strain caused by the walk. She could have taken her hoverchair out to the table-no one would have thought less of her for that-but she wanted to come to the signing table on her own two feet, no matter how tottering those feet are these days.

Mon Mothma has been waiting for this day for a long, long time. Her hair has lost its rich color, her limbs much of their strength, and her skin its rosy complexion, but though her voice is weak her words retain their power to move and her presence inspires a cheer from the watching crowds.

Holocams are everywhere, some fixed and mounted while others swoop by on small repulsorlifts, filming everything. Large screens have been placed all over the city-planet so that everyone who wishes may watch the spectacle. Live Holonet transmissions are being beamed out across the galaxy so that everyone, everywhere, can watch as well.

A number of richly-dressed dignitaries in a wide variety of species and coloration follow Mon Mothma across the square while twelve starlighter pilots in bright orange and twenty-four Coruscant patrol officers in deep blue stand at parade rest behind them. The New Republic's delegation is a much larger group than the small cluster of Imperial officers who follow Pellaeon-and a much more cheerful one, as well. A few eyes are dark with suspicion but for the most part there are smiles—some smug but most relieved or even elated—on the faces of the New Republic officials.

They, too, have been waiting for this day for a long time.

One of those who has been waiting longer than most is a light-skinned human woman who walks just behind Mon Mothma, her brown eyes tight with concern, her gaze fixed on the older woman. She looks happy but tense, as though poised to reach forward and catch the Chief of State should she stumble or fall. She has been many things, this tiny woman with graying hair coiled into two thick buns on either side of her face: senator, princess, rebel, orphan, politician, Jedi, soldier, wife, mother. Today she is here to see the end of a war she has been fighting her whole life. She is here to honor her murdered homeworld, to represent her fellow citizens, and to welcome a future that holds the peace she has so long desired.

Her name is Leia Organa-Solo, and while she is stouter and more wrinkled than the waifish young girl who first took up arms against the Empire, she has never lost her strength or her hopes. She, too, is clad in white, a simple gown in comparison with those boasted by many of the more ostentatious and colorful dignitaries around her, accented with nothing but a plain silver belt and necklace. She wears a long white robe over the gown, its hem embroidered with delicate silver thread that matches the heavy lines of silver that twist through her long brown hair.

The Imperial delegation reaches the signing table first. Pellaeon clasps his hands behind his back and waits patiently at parade-rest; his officers behind him do likewise. He does not sit until the New Republic delegation has reached the table as well and the Gotal aide assisting Mon Mothma has helped ease her stiffly into her chair.

They reach across the table, the Grand Admiral and the Chief of State, and shake hands. A cheer rises from the crowd and Leia, smiling, has to blink tears from her eyes. Like the rest of the officials, she waits several paces back from the table, leaving a wide aisle of empty space so everyone can see the two leaders. Only Mon Mothma's Gotal aide stands near them, his eyes fixed in the distance over Pellaeon's head, his hands clasped neatly at his belt.

_" _It is good to see you in person again, Gilad," Mon Mothma says genially.

Pellaeon forces a smile but his eyes are unhappy. "I hope that you will forgive me the breach in protocol if I do not lie and say the same, Iwo," he replies. "You must understand, of course, that I hoped such a day as this would never come."

Mon Mothma's smile does not flicker. "And yet you agree, do you not, that the only way for the galaxy to move forward is as a united entity bound in peace?"

_" _I do believe that," Pellaeon says.

Mon Mothma tilts her head. "Then let us begin that peace at last," she says, and beckons gracefully.

Two protocol droids step forward, both polished to a shine bright enough to leave spots in the eyes of onlookers. The Imperial droid is as black as the void while the droid that walks up from the back of the New Republic delegation is a bright gold and his face, in contrast to the bulbous-eyed snout of the Imperial droid, is flat and round and friendly with bright yellow eyes and a small, perpetually-surprised sliver of a mouth whose size bellies his vocal nature.

Today however C-3PO is appropriately silent as he steps forward and exchanges datapads with his grim Imperial counterpart. His eyes flicker as he analyzes the data on the screen in front of him, then he moves his head in a stiff nod.

_" _The treaty is ready for signing, your excellency, grand admiral," C-3PO announces happily. "All data is in complete agreement with the previously negotiated terms and language."

_" _Affirmative," the Imperial protocol droid rasps out, its voice a grating buzz in comparison to Threepio's lighter and more lilting tones. "The ceremony may proceed."

Pellaeon's shoulders seem to sag a little, then he takes a deep breath and straightens his posture once more. "Of course," he says gruffly. "As you wish." He takes the datapad that his protocol droid hands him and stares at it, but his eyes look distant.

Mon Mothma's Gotal aide takes the Imperial datapad from C-3PO and places it on the table in front of her, then steps back. Mon Mothma raises her hand over the datapad, ready to affix her biometric print and signature, then pauses, looking curiously at Pellaeon. He has not moved and his hands lie flat on the table alongside the other datapad.

_" _Gil?" Mon Mothma murmurs. "Do you need a moment?"

Pellaeon looks up at her suddenly, and the stiff resolution is gone from his face. Abruptly, he looks old and tired. He gives her a sorrowful, resigned smile. His eyes are troubled. "I need more than that, I fear, madam. Regrettably, I must instead do my duty."

In the crowd of watching dignitaries, Leia suddenly takes a step forward, her face furrowing into a concerned frown. "Wait-" she starts to say, drawing outraged stares from her fellows at the interruption, but before anyone can chide her the square erupts in chaos.

Alarms scream, blasters raise, and smoke pours from the Imperial protocol droid as though it was suddenly hit by a flamethrower, although there is no evidence of any attack—yet.

Overhead, disquietingly low, starships suddenly appear, decelerating from hyperspace dangerously close to Coruscant's atmosphere. The unmistakable wedge-shaped silhouettes of Imperial Star Destroyers cast heavy shadows on the world below while TIE fighters spill from their hangers in a barely-controlled burst of aerial foolhardiness. Several small explosions point to the near-misses that came too close as disoriented pilots fail to order their racing craft into safe passage lanes, but the Star Destroyers themselves seem unaffected by the chaos pervading their hastily-assembled starfighter screen.

Then—with an eerie silence where instinct insists there should be enormous sound—an even larger, more menacing shape jolts into view a mere thousand meters or so above the Star Destroyers: an _Executor _-class Imperial Super Star Destroyer, larger than many cities and more powerful than five Mon Cal battle cruisers. There were thought to have barely been more than twenty true Super Star Destroyers constructed in the entire history of the Empire, all of them long accounted for one way or the other, most of them destroyed.

This one is so pristine that it looks like it has never seen battle before or, if it has, then it has only just emerged from an impossibly extensive repair and retrofitting at a spaceyard equal to or superior to the famed Kuat Drive Yards. This is a gleaming, glittering razor of Imperial glory long thought lost to the galaxy...and it hangs there, in the skies over an under-defended Coruscant, for a long moment.

Then its turbolasers open fire.


	2. Chapter Two

_I've realized I can't possibly maintain outside-observer-style present tense for an entire story. So from this point on, we're going to switch to the more comfortable third-person-limited-omniscient past tense. Think of it as though the rest of this is the novelization of the movie that began in the last chapter. Sorry for the shift!_

* * *

**CORUSCANT: 40 YEARS ABE**

The first streak of deadly green light struck the edge of the celebration square, vaporizing several meters of permacrete and turning the next few meters into a superheated, bubbling metal pond. It did not directly strike any of the delegates, but that didn't matter: turbolaser fire was made to destroy starships, not individuals. Even diluted by several kilometers of atmosphere the beam was still intense enough to fry the seven senators and dignitaries closest to the platform's edge, and to send the rest sprawling. Many were on fire, many were bleeding, all were screaming. The watching crowd screamed too, panic quickly replacing anticipation and celebration.

One scream stood out above the rest: "LEIA!"

Leia Organa-Solo stirred groggily, her white robes now stained black with ash and streaked with blood in various colors. More blood—red—oozed from cuts on her forehead, her jaw, her hands. She groaned, lifted her head, blinked the world into partial focus—and suddenly she was on her feet, hands reaching to her belt for a weapon and comlink she did not have.

Around her lay other bodies, many groaning or screaming, some eerily still. The colorful finery of the New Republic delegation was tattered and torn, blood from a dozen different species seeping across the once-immaculate permacrete in one ugly dark stain. Leia started to kneel, to check for injuries on the blue-skinned Mon Cal lying by her feet, but a rough hand grabbed her arm and jerked her sideways.

Leia lifted a hand to strike back, braced her feet for a fight—then relaxed when she recognized the worried, ashen features of the man clutching at her.

He was tall for a pilot, a handsome human male with light brown skin and curly black hair, and right now his deep-set dark eyes were wide with terror. He wore an orange jumpsuit, thinner and more fitted than the usual baggy garb that X-Wing pilots flew in battle but unmistakably drawn from the same source: dress clothes for members of Starfighter Command on ceremonial assignment. Instead of the blocky white life support system that ordinarily encircled a pilot's chest, he wore a plain white vest emblazoned with the New Republic's elegant insignia in a dark orange that almost matched his jumpsuit. He had shiny black boots on his feet, shiny black gloves on his hands, and very little room in his tight-fitted clothing for the usual clutter of tools and trinkets that pilots carried around with them. Until the shooting had started, he had looked entirely out of his element but now that the adrenaline of battle was coursing through his veins, he looked like himself again.

_"_Commander," Leia gasped. Her chest felt tight; was it due to the smoke, or had she been injured when she had fallen? She shook her head; it didn't matter now. "Get your squadron in the air."

_"_Ma'am, you're hurt—"

_"_I'm fine," Leia snapped. "And I'm not important right now. Coruscant is under attack and our fleet is an hour away." She jabbed a finger at the nearest public broadcast screen, which now showed nothing but white static. "If they assume the worst and jump now, it still won't be fast enough for them to get here before the planet falls. If our attackers have hacked the feed with some sort of excuse to delay panic—and I wouldn't put it past them—and the fleet stays on station to avoid precipitating the kind of incident their arrival would cause to an in-progress peace ceremony, it'll be even longer. Coruscant doesn't have that long, commander."

_"_And I only have twelve X-Wings here, ma'am. I know Rogue Squadron is good at miracles, but that's an entire fleet up there, complete with a Super Star Destroyer. Even we aren't that good. What do you propose I do about it?"

Leia's gaze was as hard as the pilot's as she ignored the pain starting to unfold through her body to tilt her chin up and meet his eyes. "You have to get a message out," she said. When his frown didn't lighten with comprehension, Leia stabbed her hand toward the white-snow screen again. "Do you hear that? No, listen-_listen!" _she ordered him. Now she cupped both her hands along his cheeks and closed her own eyes, knowing he would obediently do the same. "Listen through the screams, through the explosions; do you hear that? The high-pitched whine?"

_"_Comm jamming," he whispered.

_"_Comm jamming," Leia confirmed. "Someone needs to get past that blockade of ships to get a message to the fleet." Her dirty face was grim. "Someone who can pull off a miracle."

_"_Understood, ma'am," the commander of Rogue Squadron said. "We'll bring the fleet. Just stay out of trouble while I'm gone, will you?"

Leia smiled sadly. "No empty promises, flyboy." She dropped her hands to his shoulders and gave them a little squeeze before letting go. "Now get your pilots in the air."

_"_Yes, ma'am," he said, but he hesitated again. "_All _my pilots, ma'am?" he asked.

Leia's face was hard and hollow. "All your pilots," she repeated. "You may need them all if anyone is going to make it out."

_"_Understood, ma'am," he said again, softly this time. "And you?"

Leia raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?" she said. "Someone needs to get Mon Mothma out of here. And if Tolokai has already done so, well, then someone needs to get their hands on Admiral Pellaeon and find out what he has to do with this betrayal."

The pilot nodded and started to step away, but just then another orange-clad figure slammed into both him and the former princess, knocking them to the ground.

Leia cried out, but fell silent immediately as blasterfire flashed by overhead.

She shoved both pilots off of her and rolled over onto her elbows, peering through the smoke. A lifetime of experience made it easy to recognize the hazy figures of stormtroopers marching forward step by step across the square, spewing blasterfire. Tattered bunting drifted downward around them.

_"_We have to move," Leia commanded. "Fast."

The smaller pilot rolled to face her. She was a pale young woman whose brown hair was wrapped in a tight braid around the curve of her head, a plain and sensible style that would be comfortable inside a flight helmet. There was nothing comfortable about the blazing look on her face, however. "Mom, stay down! It's too dangerous!"

_"_It's going to get a lot more dangerous in a few minutes," Leia said grimly. She caught her daughter's black-gloved hand. "Breha, honey, you need to—" She had to stop and clear her throat before she could continue; the platform was wreathed in heavy, acrid smoke. "You need to get in the air before the stormtroopers transmit telemetry to the ships up there to target your fighters."

_"_Mom, I'm not leaving you here—"

_"_That's an order, sweetie," Leia said. Her voice was battlefield hard.

_"_You can't order me-"

_"_Not an order from me." Leia inched to her knees and pointed to the long-limbed man lying on his stomach next to them, his hands cupped over his eyes to give him a better view through the smoke. "An order from your commanding officer."

_"_But—"

_"_She's right, Lieutenant Organa-Solo. I need you in the air asap with the rest of the Rogues. Coruscant—the entire New Republic—is counting on us."

_"_But _mom—" _

_"_I love you, sweetie." Leia leaned over and kissed her daughter's forehead. "But you have something you need to do right now, and so do I. Commander Dameron?"

_"_I think I have their pattern of fire mapped now," he replied blandly. "When I say go…"

Leia's nod was brisk. "Good," she said. "Breha?"

_"_Okay, mom," Breha said softly. "I can feel Bail—he's close. He's okay."

One of the right knots around Leia's chest eased. "Good," she said. "See if you can nudge him to get to safety."

Breha snorted. "Yeah, sure," she said. For a moment the worry on her face broke and the crooked smile that flashed across her lips made her look remarkably like her father. "I'll get right on that."

_"_Leia, are you sure—" Commander Dameron ventured, but Leia silenced him with a look.

_"_Sorry, ma'am," he said. "Of course you are. In that case, may the Force be with you...and...MARK!"

The three of them lurched to their feet, Leia and Breha's hands clinging together for a moment before they broke apart, the two pilots running back in the direction of their X-Wings and the one-time princess plunging deeper into the smoke.


	3. Chapter Three

**CORUSCANT, 40 YEARS ABE:**

Scattered blaster bolts sprayed from the smoky haze that covered the platform as Breha and Poe sprinted for their ships, heads ducked low as though that might help keep them from being hit with a stray blast. In addition to the distant, aimless blaster fire they also had to dodge around panicking senators and dignitaries.

Breha almost ran full-tilt into an overdressed Bothan who flailed at her in a panic, crying, "Where are the guards? Where are the guards!" in a high-pitched shriek.

_"_I don't know," Breha said. "Senator Fey'lya, please, I need to get to my—"

She watched in horror as a blaster bolt shot past the side of her head, crisping several strands of her coiled braid, and struck him in the face. Fey'lya fell back with a muffled, watery cry. She stared, horror-struck and motionless, at the body, the smell of scorched fur strong enough to make her sway with nausea until Poe grabbed her by the arm and dragged her bodily away.

Dignitaries weren't the only bodies they had to dodge, living and dead and wounded alike; as Breha and Poe crossed from the permacrete square to the landing platform where the X-Wings and landspeeders stood parked, the crowd thickened, several audience members having raced toward what they saw as the comparative safety of the New Republic security forces and starfighter pilots.

Although little of the smoke and blaster fire had yet made it this far across the square, chaos reigned.

_"_Rogues!" Poe yelled, as soon as he came within auditory range of his squadron. "Rogues, disengage from whatever you're doing, get in your ships, and prep for launch! Move it, people!"

He and Breha shoved their way through the panicky crowd, Breha sticking close to Poe's heels; for all that she was the daughter of legends she was also a skinny young human woman a little shorter than galactic average. Commander Dameron, on the other hand, had the commanding presence of several years of snubfighter leadership under his belt and a willingness to use his elbows like they were proton bombs.

They moved forward stubbornly against the press of bodies. The going got easier once they came in close proximity to their ships: the security cordon around the X-Wings was still intact, and the civilians were being held back by the violet force beams projected like a fence around the delicate fighters.

Poe and Breha each flashed the data-spikes worn high on the sleeves of their dress uniforms and the barrier dispelled long enough to permit them to pass through.

_"_Rogues!" Poe bellowed again, throwing his voice above the tumult with parade-ground pitch. "Get in your kriffing ships!"

Several pilots were already sitting in or perched on top of their X-Wings, and they scrambled to drop into their seats, pull on helmets, or buckle crash restraints. The rest made for their fighters at a run, some veering sideways to talk to the commander as they ran.

_"_What about life support units?" asked a nervous Devaronian man. "Dress uniforms don't have them built-in—"

_"_And there's no time to go back and get them," Poe interrupted. "We'll fly without."

_"_But commander—"

_"_Just make sure you don't have to go EV, right?" Poe said. His smile was grim.

_"_Right," the Devaronian pilot said. His smile was even weaker than his commander's, and he fingered a gold talisman hanging around his neck as though it was a good luck charm or a sacred object. He took a deep breath and hurried to his starfighter, jumping for the s-foil and clambering up to his cockpit with the ease of a man accustomed to minor acrobatics.

_"_What's the mission, commander?" demanded a heavy-set human woman with short brown hair and a heavy frown. "They don't expect us to take on all those Destroyers, do they?"

Poe shook his head. "All we have to do is get a message out, Ito. No miracles today."

Ito raised a skeptical brow. "Getting out of atmo alive in the face of that much firepower sounds like miracle enough to me," she said.

Poe clapped her on the shoulder. "I know," he said. He gave her a cocky grin. "Good thing miracles are our stock in trade, right?"

They separated as they reached their starfighters, Poe and Breha veering to the left and Ito breaking off toward her own ship, which was parked at the far end of the formation.

All around them, pilots were climbing into ships, some of them helping to boost their less-acrobatic squadronmates onto the wings and into the cockpits of the narrow snubfighters. Ordinarily there would have been landing crews with ladders and mechanics running last minute once-overs to make sure the X-Wings were fit to fly, but today the Rogues were on their own—

Or mostly on their own, at least. A sharp _snap-hiss _broke through the general tumult and Poe and Breha spun around in time to see a lean brown-haired young man in drab brown robes leap out of the air to land at their backs. His green lightsaber swung in a quick arc, knocking two blaster bolts aside before they could hit either pilot.

_"_Bail!" Breha cried.

_"_Hey, sis," Bail Solo said, flashing her a tight grin over one shoulder. He stood in guard position for another moment, his dark brown eyes scanning for further threats, before his shoulders sagged in relief and he clicked off the lightsaber. "Need a hand?"

_"_Nope," Breha answered blithely, "everything seems to be under control now."

Bail rolled his eyes, then turned to face Poe. "Commander Dameron, anything I can do to help?"

_"_Just keep the bystanders back so they don't get fried by our thrusters," Poe said. He looked a little rattled by Bail's sudden appearance, or perhaps by the realization of how close he had just come to catching a blaster bolt in his back.

Bail nodded. "Sure thing," he said. "What happened?"

_"_Did you miss the Imperial Star Destroyers dropping out of hyperspace overhead?" Breha said tartly.

Bail rolled his eyes again. "No, obviously, I meant—why? This was supposed to be a peace treaty."

_"_Your guess is as good as mine right now, kid," Poe said distractedly, running his eyes along the twelve red-streaked X-Wings to check on the status of his pilots. "But your sister and I need to get in the air and go fetch the fleet before things turn into any more of a disaster than they already have, so you'll have to pack the sibling rivalry in for the day, okay?"

_"_Yessir," said Bail, while Breha blushed and nodded.

_"_Bail!" a new voice shouted, and the Solo siblings both spun to see a Rutian Twi'lek in an orange dress uniform running toward them. In one hand he held a helmet with attached lekku sleeves; the other he flung in a hug around the startled but smiling Bail. "What are you doing here?"

_"_Seeing you off, of course," Bail said.

_"_He's lying," Breha said. "It's nothing so altruistic. He just selfishly came over to stop Commander Dameron and I from getting shot."

_"_Stop making me look bad," Bail told his sister while the young Twi'lek smirked, his sharp teeth bright against the bold blue of his skin.

_"_Fortunately for you," the Twi'lek said, "I have been your sister's wingmate for long enough to know not to listen to anything she says."

Breha stuck her tongue out at both men, grabbed Bail in a hug, and said, "Be careful. Go get mom! She's off doing something stupid again!"

Bail nodded. "Big surprise," he said, and hugged her back. "May the Force be with you!"

As Breha ran off to vault onto her own X-Wing and cram her helmet on over her still-smoking braid, Bail turned to the Twi'lek and caught his free hand, squeezing it hard. "That goes for you, too, Jaen," he said.

_"_The Force always is, with you around," Jaen Vao said, leaning in to kiss Bail on the cheek. Then he winked, twitched one lekku in a pert gesture, and whirled to run to his own X-Wing.

_"_All right, Rogues, I hope your engines are hot, because we have some anxious friends up there ready to fly a few rounds of gwayo bird with us!" Poe Dameron called from his X-Wing, punching the button to lower his canopy. As it descended he leaned forward far enough to see Bail, whom he saluted casually.

Bail returned the gesture with a broad wave and an anxious smile, then ducked his head and raced for the barrier. While it was easily capable of holding back an ordinary crowd, it could have been twice as tall and still offered little inconvenience to a Jedi Knight. Rather than another flashy jump, this time he merely held out a hand, closed his eyes, and parted the beam around him with a gentle Force nudge. Then he clipped his lightsaber back to his belt and vanished into the crowd.

Poe switched to his ship's commlink, dialing up the default squadron frequency. As he waited for the encryption to cycle on he asked his astromech, "It's gonna be a dicey one today, buddy. You ready for this?"

The little droid replied with a cheerful and enthusiastic series of trills and whistles, making Poe grin. He sobered as his comm popped, announcing its readiness to broadcast, and when he spoke again his voice was serious. "All right, Rogues, here's the mission: go get the fleet. With that long-range comm jamming up, there's no way to tell whether or not they know we're in trouble—so we'll be playing message runner today." As he spoke, Poe flipped switches and twirled dials across his cockpit, getting his X-Wing ready to fly. Thankfully short-range comms-at least closed and hardened ones like those sported by modern snubfighter squadrons-didn't seem to be affected by the jamming; running a mission without the ability to communicate with his squadron was something that Poe had done once before and had no desire to ever repeat, especially a mission that would have to be planned on-the-fly like this one. "That means no heroic stunts, people," he continued briskly. "Engage as little as possible with the enemy. We're flying to evade and, when we have to, to punch through—not to fight."

_"_Wouldn't it make more sense to just skip around to the opposite side of the planet then, Leader?" The voice on the other end of the comm was steady, not fearful; it was a question born of pragmatism rather than cowardice. Leeso Voond, a Duro woman with a long scar down the side of her green-gray face, was not someone who spent a lot of time wrestling with fear, but she was someone who could take a vibroblade straight through the emotional detritus of an issue to get to the core of a mission.

This time she wasn't on target, though. Poe shook his head. "Not with at least four Star Destroyers and a Super up there, ready to target anything down here that looks tempting. Shooting straight up at them will put us in their targeting brackets for less time than breaking horizontal." His preflight checks all in the green, Poe raised his snubfighter onto its repulsorlifts and angled for a take-off. Around him, the rest of the squadron was going airborne as well.

_"_But it will be pointing us straight up their turbolaser emplacements," Breha pointed out. She didn't sound worried about it; her tone was more that of a woman discussing lunch plans that odds of survival.

_"_True," Poe said, and his face broke into a predatory grin. "So let's see how many of those turbolasers we can destroy, or at least distract, on our way out." He paused, then as he angled his X-Wing up and hit the thrusters, added, "and may the Force be with us."

Twelve X-Wings rose out of the smoke and into the sky. From the other end of the wide platform, twelve blue-black TIE interceptors followed, screaming.


	4. Chapter Four

**CORUSCANT, 40 YEARS ABE:**

On the ground below, Leia Organa-Solo fanned smoke away from her face and pushed forward across the platform with apparent unconcern for the occasional spray of blaster bolts burning through the haze.

_"_Iwo!" she shouted. "Iwo, can you hear me?"

_"_I am afraid she cannot, princess."

Leia froze. She turned, stepped through a plume of smoke rising from the back of a blue-clad Gotal, and saw Grand Admiral Pellaeon. He was kneeling beside the thin, white-clad body of an elderly human female. His white uniform was streaked with smoke and his thinning hair was in disarray, but it was the sorrow on his face that looked out of place as he gently folded Mon Mothma's arms over her chest and smoothed her short hair. Her eyes were already closed.

_"_No," Leia whispered. "How—did she—?"

_"_I don't believe she felt much," Pellaeon said. "The first turbolaser salvo threw her from her chair, cracked her head on the permacrete. I suppose it was just too much for her after everything." He looked up, meeting Leia's eyes with his own tired brown ones. "It may have been too fast for her to realize what was happening, to understand that it had all gone wrong. Is it wrong of me to hope that it was? To hope that she died knowing peace?"

Leia hesitated. Something about this wasn't adding up. Her hands strayed toward her empty belt again and she forced them to hang still by her sides. "Admiral, what happened?" she asked.

Pellaeon sighed and levered himself to his feet. It was the movement of an old man. He looked down at Mon Mothma's still body for a moment, then up and over Leia's head. She wasn't sure if he was looking at the horizon, at the turbolaser fire still lancing down around them, sowing panic and devastation in the fleeing crowd, or at some more distant sight beyond the range of vision. Leia ignored it all to focus on the elderly Grand Admiral.

_"_I always tried to be an honorable soldier, princess," he said. "You know this."

Leia inclined her head in a slow, hesitant nod. While she of all people had little good to say about the Empire, it was widely agreed that Gilad Pellaeon was one of the shining examples of what was best about it; of what _could _be good about it, in the right hands. For a few short, glorious weeks Leia had entertained the idea that those hands were finally here, that what was left of the Empire's order and efficiency was finally going to be employed in the galaxy's benefit rather than in service to tyranny...but the Imperial ships overhead, and the stormtroopers steadily advancing around them, put the lie to those hopes. Distantly, Leia could hear the unmistakable wail of TIE fighters, reedy and thin above the crackle of flames and the blistering pulse of turbolaser fire.

_"_I have done many things I am not proud of, as have all soldiers." Pellaeon straightened the chair he had been sitting in a few short minutes earlier, when he had been hesitating to sign the peace documents that would have ended the war between the Empire and the New Republic for good. Leia wondered, now, if he had hesitated on purpose—not wanting to commit that last base crime on top of this greater betrayal. "Some because they were the best choice of bad options," Pellaeon continued, "others because I was ordered to and could not see a means of refuting or refusing; still others merely because I was frightened or obedient...but I have always tried to be honorable in the carrying out of my duties."

_"_I know," Leia said. "Even I can admit to that, admiral."

Pellaeon's eyes were still far away, not on her. The smile he mustered was brief and sad. "We do not always have the luxury of acting as we would wish," he said. "Sometimes we must commit acts that are anathema to us. Sometimes out of necessity, or expediency...and sometimes because those acts are forced upon us."

Another burst of turbolaser fire sounded nearby, but the square where the peace should have been signed was not struck again. The starship gunners were unlikely to risk firing at it again as long as their Grand Admiral stayed there. Leia unconsciously took a step closer to him, away from the potential blast radius of another shot.

_"_You are the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Remnant," she pointed out reasonably, trying to quell the sudden flutter of her heart. "Who could force you to undertake an act so abhorrent—unless...you aren't referring to this treaty, are you?" she asked, waving her hand to indicate the scattered datapads.

Pellaeon looked down and saw one of them—impossible, now, to tell if it was the one the Imperials had brought to the table or the New Republic's—near his booted feet. Its screen was cracked but it was still powered on, the words of the treaty still visible through the sheen of dust and ash that coated it. He lifted the datapad, looked at it for a long moment, then set it on the table.

_"_No," he told Leia. "I am not referring to our surrender. I was ready for that, princess. I _pushed _for that."

Leia nodded again. Now was not the time or the place to point out that she no longer went by the title of princess; had not for many years, now. She suspected to old men like Gilad Pellaeon she would always be that feisty young princess arguing passionately on the Senate floor. Ordinarily that thought annoyed her, but today it just made her tired. How would that girl she had once been react to the idea that the peace she fought so hard for would not be achieved for a long, long forty years? For longer, even, if today went the way she feared?

_"_I am referring…" Pellaeon waved a heavy hand around at the smoke and devastation all around them; at the fallen chair where Mon Mothma had been sitting, alive and hopeful, so short a time ago. "I am referring to all of this."

_"_What happened?" Leia asked.

Pellaeon shook her head. "Duty," he said. The word came out like a judge's verdict, heavy and final and merciless.

Leia raised her eyebrows. "Perhaps you could explain that," she said.

Pellaeon's shoulders lifted in a sigh. "Do you wish to join me?" he asked, indicating the other chair. "I can assure you that none of the stormtroopers here today will dare to fire anywhere near you so long as you are in my vicinity."

Leia shook her head. "I would rather stand," she said.

_"_Of course," said Pellaeon. He sighed again and lifted the cracked datapad. "It could have worked, couldn't it?" he asked. His voice was so soft that Leia had to strain her ears to hear him over the screams and shots and shouts around her. "It could have worked."

_"_It could have," she agreed. "Maybe it still can. If you tell your forces to stand down…"

_"_They aren't my forces," Pellaeon said. "Not anymore."

_"_You've been removed from command?"

_"_I've been usurped," Pellaeon said simply. "I am still Grand Admiral, still Supreme Commander of the Imperial Remnant...but even the Supreme Commander must obey those who outrank him, and I am not Emperor."

Leia's blood ran cold. "Who—?"

_"_Mom!"

She spun at the sound of a familiar voice.

_"_Mom, where are you?"

_"_Bail, get out of here!" Leia snapped. She started forward through the smoke and a blaster bolt flashed in front of her, almost scorching her nose. She flinched back.

Another light suddenly flared into life amidst the smoke, a bright green one. It batted back the blaster bolts that converged on it and several mechanically-augmented screams came from somewhere over Pellaeon's shoulder. The lightsaber vanished again, removing the convenient target of its glow, and a short humanoid form in a long brown robe ran forward to grab Leia by the arm.

_"_Mom, come on, let's get out of here!" Bail Solo said. He was a lean, tightly-muscled boy a handspan taller than Leia with floppy brown hair, pale skin, and bright brown eyes. He looked much like his twin sister, but unlike Breha, he wore the plain robes of a Jedi rather than the bright orange of a fighter pilot. He was also less adept at masking his emotions and right now, fear poured off of him in waves—fear for his mother, mainly, although once he realized the import of today's Imperial betrayal that feeling would expand to encompass the rest of the galaxy as well.

He tugged at his mother's arm, trying to get her out of the line of fire before it started up again.

Leia shook her head and looked back at Pellaeon, who sat where she had left him, looking as settled as a man in the garden of his own comfortable estate. He met Leia's eyes and gave her another tired, short smile. "It was an honor to know you, princess, and an honor to fight you," he said. "It would have been an honor to work with you, too."

_"_It still could be," Leia offered. "Come with us—"

_"_And lend you my expertise in warfare against my Empire? No," Pellaeon shook his head. "That I fear I cannot do."

_"_If they are dishonorable, isn't betraying them what honor demands?" Leia ventured.

Pellaeon shook his head again. "In this case it is duty, not honor, that I must obey. My regrets, princess. And may the Force be with you." He sighed. "I fear you're going to need it."

_"_Mom come _on!" _Bail cried again. This time he used the Force to augment his pull and Leia stumbled toward him.

_"_Your sister—"

_"_She's in the air already," Bail said, relief mingling with the worry in his voice as his mother at last allowed him to move her forward, away from the slow advance of stormtroopers. "She's worried but okay, and moving away from us. The comm-jamming is still up so that's all I know right now. She'll be less worried once she can feel we aren't in danger anymore, so come on. Let's get out of here and help Rey concentrate before she gets blown out of the sky, okay?"

_"_Okay," Leia said. She was starting to go numb around the pain of her bumps and bruises and the blood on her face was drying. She wondered that her eyes could still be dry, too, and only belatedly realized that they weren't: she was crying, had been since the explosions started.

As they gained distance from Pellaeon, sparse blasterfire began to pierce the smoke around them again but Bail was half-sunk in a Force trance, navigating the paths of danger and safety on Jedi instinct. Twice he had to ignite his lightsaber to batter shots away from him and Leia, but they took no more damage as they traversed the savaged platform.

Each step seemed to drag at Leia's feet as though she were moving through heavy gravity, or thick liquid, but it was the weight of broken hopes pulling at her, not the ground.

A warbling, animal-like bellow jolted her out of her fuge. "Chewie?" Leia gasped.

Bail's face lit up in a grin. "Chewie," he confirmed. "Chewie! Down here!" He ignited his lightsaber again, waving it overhead like a landing beacon. The smoke around them started to waft away in shreds as the sound of repulsorlifts approached them through the tumult and the screams. At the sound of Bail's voice the rumble intensified, the source of the noise banking toward them more sharply, and then the familiar saucer-shaped side of the _Millenium Falcon _broke through the last of the smoke.

Leia felt her steps, for a moment, grow lighter.

Chewbacca bellowed again, this time with both delight and impatience as he spotted Leia and Bail. He was standing on the open boarding ramp of the ship, one furry hand wrapped around the hydraulic column that raised and lowered the ramp, the other stretching toward the two humans as though even he had a long enough reach to simply lean out and pull them aboard across the half-dozen meters between them.

The ship lowered carefully toward the permacrete and Leia and Bail hurried, nearly running, to meet it.

_"_You first," Leia ordered.

_"_Mom, I'm a Jedi—"

_"_And I'm your mother," Leia interrupted curtly. "I'm not arguing, Bail."

Bail sighed, rolled his eyes like he was an adolescent again instead of a young man of twenty, and gathered his strength for the leap. He closed his eyes, visualized his target, and boosted himself with the Force into a long, soaring arc that deposited him neatly on the edge of the boarding ramp—a little _too _neatly, and he wobbled on the rim for a moment before Chewbacca snagged him by the tunic and pulled him aboard. The Wookiee rumbled a greeting that was half-complaint, half-relief, and gave him a helpful shove up the ramp.

Bail hurried aboard, out of the way, and down below his mother closed her eyes and took a deep breath in preparation for her own jump, centering herself in the Force through the wave of shattered hopes and painful deaths. Then her eyes flew open again and she turned at a shrill cry: "Mistress Leia! Oh, Mistress Leia!"

C-3PO tottered forward as fast as his stiff metal legs could carry him. "Oh, please don't leave without me!" the protocol droid wailed. He waved his arms over his head in a desperate bid to be more visible, one hand clutching a slim datapad. "Mistress Leia!"

_"_Threepio?" Leia said, plainly bewildered. She shook her head and snapped, "Well hurry it up then! Han won't wait forever!"

_"_Oh dear!" Threepio wailed. "I assure you, mistress, I am moving as fast as I—oh!"

A blaster bolt flashed by close enough to scorch a long black streak across Threepio's siny shoulder. "I'm doomed!" he cried. "Never mind, Mistress Leia, save yourself! I'm done for!"

Leia shook her head. "It's all right, Threepio," she said, and closed her eyes again. This time instead of preparing to jump she stretched out her hand, fingers splayed, toward the pessimistic droid. "I've got you."

With a sharp little "Oh!" of surprise, Threepio raised off the ground and soared smoothly toward the hovering YT-1300 stock light freighter. "Oh deeeeaaaaar!" he wailed as Leia deposited him, a bit hastily, on the ramp. Chewbacca grabbed him by the arm, growled unhappily, and shoved him up the ramp in Bail's wake. He bellowed anxiously at Leia and leaned forward farther over the edge of the ramp, as though preparing to snatch her out of midair.

Leia ignored both the Wookiee and the staccato retort of blasterfire tracking toward her, bent her knees, and pushed herself into a long Force-assisted leap.

A dozen bright red blaster bolts pierced the space where she had just been standing, but Leia was already gone.

Her dirty white robes flapped around her as she landed heavily on the ramp of the ship. Chewie reached out and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her in for a quick half-hug and a rumble of reassurance before shoving her up the ramp in the wake of her son and the droid. He followed, bellowing a command, and the ramp began to rise while he was still climbing, forcing the tall Wookiee to duck his head to avoid banging it on the hatchway.

The _Millenium Falcon _banked away from the carnage and headed for the skies.

* * *

_NOTE: I want to post a "cast list" for all the major characters at the end (still pretending as though this were being filmed as Episode VII lol) and I haven't been able to figure out a good actor for Bail. (Right now I've got Colin Ford or Jeremy Irvine but neither really feel perfect to me.) If anyone has suggestions for someone who could play a good twin brother to Daisy Ridley, please share them in the reviews!_


	5. Chapter Five

**THE SKIES ABOVE CORUSCANT, 40 YEARS ABE:**

In the upper atmosphere above Coruscant, a fierce battle was taking place between Rogue Squadron and a group of Imperial TIE interceptors—once twelve in number in counterpart to the Rogues, but already now reduced to eight thanks both to the superior shooting and flying of the Rogues, and to the X-Wings' greater suitability to atmospheric engagements.

The TIEs, with their squat wings and wider profile, suffered more drag from air resistance, particularly when turning, and while the pointed interceptor was less hampered than an ordinary TIE, their broad solar panels had nothing on an X-Wing's sleeker s-foils—not in atmosphere, anyway. In the frictionless void of space a TIE, particularly an interceptor, was both faster and more maneuverable than an X-Wing and ordinarily a canny snubfighter commander like Poe Dameron would have held his pilots to atmospheric maneuvering as long as the enemy fighters were willing to oblige by flying under such a handicap—but their mission today wasn't to vape the enemy, or even to win.

It was to _run_.

_" _Break atmo when you can and jump to hyperspace at your first opportunity, Rogues," Poe ordered as he threw his X-Wing into a dizzying loop designed to maximize the drag tugging at the squint trying to follow him. It set up an easy shot for his wingmate, Leeso, who obligingly drilled the TIE with two quad-linked laserburts, puncturing the spherical cockpit with a blaze of fire. Neither bothered to see if the pilot ejected; TIEs were not known for their survivability, although the interceptor was a monumental upgrade to the standard TIE in that respect—and many others.

Angling his ship around for an easy, atmosphere-friendly turn that would land him on Breha and Jaen's tail so he and Leeso could vape the pair of squints dogging their exhaust, Poe continued dictating instructions to his pilots: "Do not, repeat, do _not _wait for the entire squadron to form-up before commencing jump. As soon as you can make a break for it, do. Don't wait for the rest of us; we'll follow as we can…but we _need _to get that message to the fleet at all costs. Do you understand me?"

_"_Rogue Two, copy," Leeso said immediately, her voice its usual toneless rasp.

_"_Rogue Three, I hear you commander."

_"_Rogue Four understands, sir."

One by one his pilots called in, ending with Rogues Eleven and Twelve—Breha and Jaen, the youngest and newest transfers to the squadron. Poe might have worried about them more in an engagement like they were about to face, but Breha was a Jedi as well as a prodigally talented pilot and she was more than capable of looking after a wingmate who had more talent than experience, like Jaen.

That didn't mean he wasn't anxious about the prospect of getting Leia Organa's daughter vaped. Leia had been something like a second mother to Poe since before he had been old enough to officially join the Rebellion, and he respected her more than he did almost anyone else in the entire New Republic—maybe even more than he did the venerable Gial Ackbar. But Leia had told him to take Breha with him, even when he'd offered a chance to leave her out of this battle. She must have faith in her daughter's skills too…or at least, faith in the Force to which both she and Breha both had such a strong connection.

Poe squeezed his trigger once, twice, three times; a few meters behind and just to the side of his X-Wing, Leeso did the same. The two TIEs chasing Breha and Jaen collapsed in fire and shredding metal. Poe checked his sensor board and saw that only three of the interceptors were left—no, make that two; another one blinked out as Rogue Three, Ito, flew through the debris cloud where it had been a moment before.

_"_All right, Rogues," Poe said into his commlink, "that's enough dallying with the appetizer. Let's break space and go punch-out a Star Destroyer."

_"_Sir," Leeso's voice came over the comm immediately, "I thought you said the point of this engagement was _not _to engage with the enemy."

Poe grinned. "Yeah," he said, "of course I did. But as long as we're already in the neighborhood…"

Behind him, his BB-8 droid let out a mournful warble. Poe Dameron laughed.

Breha Organa-Solo checked that her deflector shields were angled to offer protection both fore and aft; it would have been dead embarrassing to be concentrating so much on the Star Destroyers ahead of her that she got vaped by a lucky shot from one of the tagalong TIEs still trailing them up from the devastated peace signing. It also would have been deadly, which was another good argument for evening her shields.

_"_How's it looking back there, Twelve?" Breha asked.

_"_Port side stabilizer's a little loose," Jaen answered. He sounded tense. "As soon as we're in vacuum I'll have my astromech see if she can lock it down."

_"_Good idea," Breha replied, meaning it on both levels: one of the benefits of flying an X-Wing was that on-the-fly repair-work was sometimes possible thanks to the droids they carried along, but the friction drag of atmospheric flying could be extremely hard on an astromech's delicate tools. They were specced for work in hard vacuum, designed not to freeze up or warp under the enormous pressures and freezing temperature of raw space—but the void was a very different environment than that of planetary atmospheres, especially when rocketing through those atmospheres at speeds this high. She was relieved that Jaen was canny enough to know better than to risk his droid on atmospheric repairs when they would soon be safely ensconced in vacuum instead; while the Twi'lek was a talented pilot—no one got into Rogue Squadron without being a talented pilot—he had less actual engagement experience than anyone else in the squadron, herself included. Plus, her twin brother had a massive crush on him. The least she could do was bring Bail's boyfriend home alive. "Shout if there's trouble," she ordered.

_"_Roger, Eleven."

Together the two pilots shot from the thin, wispy layer of stratosphere and into the cold of true vacuum. The interceptors trailing the squadron crossed a few seconds later and immediately jumped forward, their non-atmospheric speeds higher than an X-Wing's. Breha gritted her teeth and debated swinging around to loop behind the TIEs and try to vape them—but she remembered Commander Dameron's orders about engaging only when necessary.

She checked her shields one more time to make sure that her rear was protected from cheap potshots, then did her best to ignore the instincts screaming at her that letting an enemy sit on her tail was a terrible idea. _They don't matter, _she told herself firmly. _They aren't the mission. They're just a—a distraction. So don't get distracted. Focus! _

Breha did, both on the battle ahead and on the Force pulsing around her. She could feel the distant echo of the carnage on the surface—the raw wound of betrayal and pain throbbing in the back of her mind like a toothache. She tuned it out, spreading her awareness ahead of her, toward the Star Destroyers and the mass of TIEs swarming around them.

She couldn't help being chilled by the sight. It was one thing to joke about Rogue Squadron's penchant for pulling off impossible missions on the ground; quite another to stare down four Imperial Star Destroyers, five smaller support ships, at least a dozen squadrons of various makes of TIE fighter, and one _Executor _-class Super Star Destroyer.

Breha swallowed hard.

_"_Look at the size of that thing…"

_"_Cut the chatter Rogue Eleven," Commander Dameron snapped. "Rogues, break by wing on my mark and go evasive. Break away or punch through—I'll leave it up to your discretion. Don't bunch up. This isn't a mutual support situation. The more directions we go in, the better our odds of some of us getting through." There was a long pause as the X-Wings raced forward toward the Destroyers. From their flight paths screening the ships, four squadrons of TIEs split away and dove down to meet them. The distance narrowed fast. They had almost halved it when Poe continued, "It's been an honor flying with you all. Okay, mark!"

The formation of X-Wings split apart like a flock of flarion birds fleeing a blastail. Poe and Leeso flipped their ships into dizzying barrel rolls and curved straight for the center of the closest squadron. Breha and Jaen jerked their ships in a hard perpendicular turn and looped around for a low pass beneath the TIES. The other Rogues likewise broke by wing-pairs and either swooped wide or cut sharp straight toward the TIES. One pair of X-Wings angled to cross the starfighter screen between capital ships and flew directly into a turbolaser shot from one of the star destroyers, vaporizing instantly.

Breha felt their deaths through the Force and tightened her grip on her control yoke. This wasn't her first dogfight but it was the first time she had faced odds anything like this, the first time the stakes of failure had been so high. Growing up in the waning days of the war with the Empire, Breha's service as a Rogue had consisted mainly of peacekeeping duties and territorial squabbles-dangerous, sometimes deadly, but never with the fate of the whole New Republic resting on her wiry shoulders.

_Was this how mom felt when she saw the Death Star? _Breha wondered, and shook the thought away quickly. The middle of a dogfight was no place for woolgathering. She could talk to her mother about the early days of the Rebellion later-_if _she lived long enough.

"Okay Jaen, let's vape some eyeballs and go fetch Uncle Wedge," Breha told her wingman.

"Just as long as I don't have to call the Commander of the First Fleet 'uncle' anything," Jaen agreed, trying to joke through his nerves.

Breha grinned. "Uncle Admiral, maybe?"

"I think I'll stick with Admiral Antilles if it's all the same to you," Jaen said primly, juking his X-Wing around and punching three bright laserblasts through the solar panels of the TIE bearing down on him. The round ship spun sideways, crashing into its wingman and obliterating them both in a ball of fire. "Some of us didn't have our diapers changed by the greatest legends of the Rebellion, you know."

"No?" Breha said in an innocent voice as she spun her X-Wing like a top and drilled a blisteringly fast series of shots through the cockpit ball of the TIE fighter shooting towards her. "Huh. Who else do you get to do diaper duty, then? Oh right-Wookiees!"

Jaen didn't answer, unless a heavy sigh and a lekku twitch his wingmate couldn't see counted as an answer. Instead he focused on the battle, his dark blue face greenish with nerves and his pink lips tight and thin with strain. Breha's bantering had had the desired effect of stopping his hands from shaking on their instruments, but he was still too tense to keep up with their usual jokes.

Breha fell silent in concentration as well, and for several impossibly long seconds the only sounds were the terse warnings and commands of their squadronmates, the whine of engines, and the wail of astromechs as the twelve-now ten, then nine, then seven-X-Wings of Rogue Squadron fought an unwinnable battle in the shadow of five fearsome star destroyers.


	6. Chapter Six

**THE SKIES ABOVE CORUSCANT, 40 YEARS ABE:**

The _Millenium Falcon _shuddered as a turbolaser blast grazed its upper shield. "Oh my!" C-3PO exclaimed as the sudden wobble, too abrupt for the artificial gravity to compensate for properly, threw him sideways. He clattered into the wall of the ship's narrow hallway, then repeated the cry-with slightly more emphasis-a second time as another blast flung him back the other way.

Past the flailing droid, three of the Solo family and Chewbacca-family himself, although taller and hairier than any of the human Solos would ever be-stared tensely through the viewports as Han and Chewie guided the saucer-shaped craft in a dizzying sequence of evasive maneuvers.

Han-grayer, older, and more lined, but as energetic as ever-kept up a steady stream of complaints and curses as his hands danced across the cockpit instruments. Chewbacca provided counterpoint both in maneuvering technique and in throaty growls and bellows.

_"_I know, I know, I can see it!" Han shouted, nodding at a throbbing red light on the ship's display board. "What do you think I'm trying to do? Yeah? Well if you don't like it, pal, you can walk home!"

Neither Leia nor Bail reacted to the shouting or the roaring, although their responses couldn't have been more different: Bail, his face pale and his expression the forced-calm of a young Jedi trying to maintain their poise under stress, sat strapped securely into the seat behind Chewbacca, his hands folded in his lap and his lips pressed tight together. Leia was ostensibly sitting in the navigator's chair behind Han, but in reality she was more resting the back of her thighs against it for stability as she stood, hands tight on the arm and headrest of the pilot's chair, and shouted her own advice and observations.

_"_I thought the point was to _avoid _the Imperial ships. You've got us going right toward them!"

_"_It's not like they've set up a blockade," Han retorted. "Flying straight up their nose tends to disorient most Imperials-and besides, I figured they'd be too busy getting vaped by Rogue Squadron to care about some rattletrap freighter!"

_"_This bucket hasn't been a discreet smuggling vessel in over thirty years," Leia snapped back. Chewbacca roared his approval-of her statement, or of Han's, only the Wookiee himself could say. "You're flying one of the most famous, recognizable ships in the galaxy-"

_"_I've got a fake identity transponder on," Han protested. "They shouldn't have any idea who we-oh." He paused to look back and catch his son's eye, then nodded at a bank of switches over Bail's head. Bail obediently reached up and flicked two of the switches, a small and rueful smile on his face as he returned to his pose of deliberate calm. "Anyway, _now _I have a fake identity transponder on," Han continued, as if there had been no interruption.

Leia rolled her eyes but there was no malice in the gesture. "A YT-1300 blasting away from Coruscant minutes after an underhanded Imperial attack on the peace signing?" she said. "They'd have figured us for the _Falcon _even if you _had _been using one of your fake IDs."

Han muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "It's not my fault."

Chewie roared a warning just as another bank of lights started blinking on the dashboard.

_"_We're about to lose the fore deflector," Han announced.

_"_Time for battle stations, then?" Leia asked. She didn't wait for an answer, but turned and headed for the cockpit door, pausing barely a second to squeeze her husband's shoulder on her way. "Bail, with me."

Bail hurried to unstrap himself and follow his mother. "Remember the point is to get _away _, not to pull one over on the Imperials, dad," he said blandly.

_"_Don't tell your old man how to fly," Han retorted. "Go on, listen to your mother!"

Bail left, dodging around Threepio as the hapless protocol droid finally made his way against the bucking, spinning turbulence to the cockpit. "Oh my!" Threepio exclaimed quietly, half-falling into the seat behind Chewbacca as another blast rocked the ship. "We seem to be in something of a situation, Captain Solo!"

_"_Are we?" Han spat. "I hadn't noticed." He raised his voice in a bellow aimed toward the center of the ship. " _Leia-?" _

_"_Keep your pants on, flyboy," came the static-coated reply from the ship's internal comm. A moment later bright red laser blasts tore from the _Falcon' _s topside guns, followed a few seconds later by matching blasts from the underside guns.

Han muttered again, this time something that was half-compliment and half-insult, as a TIE fighter exploded in a furious ball of light two meters in front of the cockpit viewport. He swung the ship in a hard spin that earned a shrill cry of dismay from C-3PO and an approving roar from Chewbacca.

The Wookiee dropped his voice to something approximating conversational volume-if said conversation was taking place in the middle of a crowded club or a battlefield's trenches, perhaps-and barked a series of inquiring, cautionary interrogatives.

Han shook his head. "I don't know," he said grimly. Suddenly he looked old and tired, his gray hair standing out starkly against the backdrop of the blinking diodes and control switches of the cramped cockpit. "Here, take over while I start the hyperspace calculations. It's too hot to hang around here for long."

Chewie warbled a fervent agreement and swung the _Falcon _in a twisty loop to throw off Imperial gunners. Turbolaser blasts went wide around the ship, although one struck close enough to make the lights flicker.

_"_Han-!" Leia snapped from her gunner's station.

_"_Working on it, sweetheart!" Han shouted back, leaning back out of his chair to reach the navigator's station. It was funny how, even on those rare occasions when the _Millenium Falcon _had the recommended four-being crew to fly it, he still ended up pulling double-duty more often than not. He punched at the navicomputer's buttons, trying to goad it to calculate faster from sheer force of will. "Come on, come on," he muttered, his eyes flicking back and forth between the computer and the cockpit's transparisteel viewport.

TIEs were starting to swarm them in earnest now and Chewie was having a hard time keeping the ship on its path away from the planet; he kept having to loop and double-back to avoid the other ships, although Leia and Bail were shooting them as fast as they could. Already Han had seen four ships explode, and another had gone spinning-off in a semi-controlled spiral away from the battle.

The problem was that there were just too many of them, and too few of the people on Han's side. He caught the occasional glimpse of an X-Wing here or there, most of them even more overwhelmed by the deluge of TIEs than was the _Falcon _, and he tried not to think about his daughter up there in one of those ships. Despite all of his upgrades, Han knew-although he would never admit it out loud to another being-that the _Millenium Falcon _was a freighter, not a snubfighter. She did a remarkable job of impersonating the later, but in a battle like this his ship was too far out of its element. He had to get out of here before he got vaped and took his wife, son, and best friend with him...but if he thought about how leaving meant leaving his daughter behind to keep fighting without him, he'd never be able to make himself engage the hyperdrive.

An X-Wing scoured by the hot streaks of near-misses shot past the viewport in pursuit of three TIEs, its lasers blazing fiery tracks across Han's vision. There was no way for him to know who was piloting the narrow snubfighter but he whispered, "Watch yourself, Rey," anyway.

Another turbolaser blast struck the ship full-on and the _Falcon _dropped several relative meters under the punch of the blow. The lights all went out, the engines died, the shields cut off; for a moment, the ship was entirely helpless. Another good blast would finish them-but then with a whine, the _Falcon _came back to life.

Han resumed breathing. "That's it girl," he murmured, "just a little bit more…" He leaned back to check the status of the navicomputer and swore. That blast had wiped the calculation in progress and now he needed to start over from the beginning.

_"_Captain Solo," Threepio said prissily from his comfortable seat behind Chewie, "I do believe that that power fluctuation interrupted the navicomputer's processing. You will have to reinitialize the calculation before we can make the jump to lightspeed-"

_"_Tell me something I don't know!" Han snapped at the droid.

Threepio's glowing eyes flickered, giving the droid an odd impression of a man blinking thoughtfully. Then he said, "The glottal stop is an anthropologically inexplicable addition to the Togrutian-"

"THREEPIO!" Han bellowed. The droid subsided, muttering indignantly about the bewildering rudeness of sentients who asked questions when they didn't actually want answers. One of the insistent lights blinking on the ship's dash started blinking more insistently, joined by a shrill alarm and Leia's warning shout of, "HAN!" from the gunner's station.

Chewbacca's roar dwarfed all other sounds, even the shriek of the alarm, as he twisted the pilot's yoke so sharply that Han was flung from his seat. For a moment, everything was lit with a sickly green glow. Stumbling forward, Han caught his friend's hairy arm and hung on for balance, shouting a complaint for the bad flying-but he fell silent at Chewbacca's bark. The Wookiee jerked his chin toward the cockpit's forward viewport and Han's eyes went wide.

"Sithspit," he swore in a whisper.

The Super Star Destroyer had turned out of line with the other ships and was now facing the _Falcon _. The TIEs around them were scattering to get away from the aging freighter as quickly as their ion engines would carry them but it wasn't quite fast enough: another massive beam of light lanced out from the Super Star Destroyer, vaporizing one of the TIEs unlucky enough to be caught in its area of effect.

Chewbacca pulled the _Falcon _into a dive sharp enough to make the ship's joints and seams scream and pop, but the massive turbolaser blast passed narrowly overhead-close enough to make the lights flicker and what was left of the shields evaporate and to make every hair in the cockpit, from the gray mop on top of Han's head to the brown fur that covered every inch of Chewbacca's body, stand on end.

The alarms resumed screaming but it seemed to be coming from a distance now, muffled by the oppressive presence of the Super Star Destroyer.

"We have to get out of here," Han said. He was sweating and his voice sounded uncharacteristically meek. "Chewie, point us out and get ready to engage the hyperdrive." He turned back to the navicomputer and began pressing buttons frantically. "Just need a minute to override the safeties…"

"Captain Solo!" Threepio protested. "The navicomputer hasn't had time to calculate-"

"We don't have time," Han snapped back, pounding a fist on the hull to overcome a sticky button's reluctance.

"But sir!" Threepio exclaimed. "Without precise calculations, we could fly right through a star or-"

"I know!" Han lunged for the pilot's seat again, one hand reaching for the piloting controls. "Punch it, Chewie!"

Another massive laserblast lanced out from the Super Star Destroyer but the _Millennium Falcon _had already lurched forward, for a moment stretching out and moving impossibly fast before it blinked out of realspace. The immense bolt of green light shot through the empty space where the ship had been a moment before, dazzling the eyes of any watching pilots.


	7. Chapter Seven

**THE SKIES ABOVE CORUSCANT, 40 YEARS ABE:**

As starships and proton torpedoes exploded all around, Rogues Eleven and Twelve stuck tight on one another's s-foils despite the irregular stream of sparks and smoke that poured from the port fuselage of the trailing ship. The white and green BB-8 unit that labored to repair the damaged stabilizer screeched and warbled unhappily as her pilot twirled their X-Wing in a tight spiral. Green lasers flashed past.

"We're almost through," Jaen reassured his astromech, "just hold it together."

Breha squeezed the trigger, unleashing a torrent of hot red lasers. Her X-Wing shuddered under the impact of the TIE Interceptor's glancing shots as the two ships screamed toward each other (literally, in the case of the TIE) across the battlefield. Sweat stung Breha's eyes but she didn't dare take her hands from the controls to wipe it away.

Her shots finally churned their way through the Interceptor's hull and the dark ship exploded in a burst of superheated gas bright enough to dazzle Breha's eyes. She plowed through the center of the blaze-being too close now to turn aside-and emerged, slightly scorched, with her astromech screaming.

"That got him!" a cheerful voice exclaimed. "Good shooting, Elev-" A burst of static devoured the rest of Rogue Six's words as his X-Wing exploded even more spectacularly than the Interceptor. Two TIEs came tearing through the fiery space where he had been, their lasers cycling fast.

Breha swore and rolled her ship away in the nick of time. The potshot she took on the way went wide, glancing off the omnipresent backdrop of the Super Star Destroyer's shields.

"Rogues, report!" Commander Dameron's voice cut-off Breha's muttered curses. "Who's left?"

"Rogue Nine here, commander! I've got Four with me, her comms are out and we've both lost our wings-"

"Rogue Five still here, sir, but my hyperdrive is toast. Got some nasty fuel spill-over into my sublights, too big for the droid to fix. I'm not going anywhere in this tub, sir."

"Head planetside then, Five," Poe ordered, absently dropping his X-Wing into a barrel roll to avoid a swath of turbolaser fire from one of the capital ships. His wingmate followed without comment, sticking so close to his stern that the nose of her X-Wing reddened in the thruster wash. "Take your wing with you, he can-"

"Six is dead, sir." Rogue Five's voice rasps harshly with the effort of maintaining control. "And I'm not running away."

"You're no good to us without a hyperdrive, Five-"

"I can do plenty of damage up here on sublights, sir."

"Kriffing he-_fine _. Form-up with-"

"Negative, sir," Five interrupted again. "With the way these drives are overheating, I'm a floating thermal detonator. Better if none of you get too close, sir."

"Then throttle back and head dirtside, dammit," Poe said briskly, seemingly unbothered by the tight spin he had thrown his X-Wing into. Leeso mirrored his actions a ship-length behind, the two of them cleaving through a pair of TIEs who scattered like startled birds. Jaen snapped off a quick shot that burned a hole through one solar array as their ships passed but the damage was only superficial; the TIE made one of those impossibly-quick turns that no X-Wing pilot could replicate and flipped over, coming back to return the favor, and flew directly into Breha's lasers. The Imperial snubfighter spun away, one side on fire.

Breha spared a glance for the rest of the squadron and was in time to hear Five say, "Sorry sir." His voice was suddenly bright and cheery. "Looks like there's something wrong with my comm, too. You're not coming through clearly. Did you say, take as many of the bastards with you as you can?"

"Five, I order you to-"

But whatever Commander Dameron was going to say next, Five would never know. He dove directly for a squadron of Interceptors. The TIEs scattered like a still pool under assault from a boulder, but enough of them fired as they turned that the X-Wing was quickly reduced to slag. Without telemetry from the astromech there was no way to know whether the damaged engines had overheated or whether one of the TIEs' shots had struck something sensitive, but suddenly the beleaguered fighter went up in a blast like a miniature nova. At least a half-dozen TIEs went with it, if not more.

There was no time to mourn; Nine's husky voice came over the comm, saying, "Commander, I think Four is following his lead. It looks like she's setting up for a final run on the bridge of that Destroyer."

"Negative!" Poe cried. "Negative, Four, do you hear me? Do you-"

But whether Four heard or not, she didn't listen; trailing smoke from one engine and with nothing but a crater where her astromech used to be, her muted X-Wing careened in a sharp arc toward the portmost Star Destroyer. TIEs scrambled after her, recognizing the suicidal intent; the ship's gunners, seeing the same danger, concentrated their fire along Four's path, inadvertently vaping a number of their own TIEs in their desperate attempt to destroy the New Republic snubfighter before it reached their bridge.

They succeeded.

Four's ship blew apart mere meters from the transparisteel viewport. Bits of burning X-Wing clattered against the hull, leaving scorch marks and rents in the heavy armor, but not penetrating deep enough to do more than cosmetic damage.

Breha flew mechanically, unaware of the tears trickling out beneath her helmet's visor.

Poe was swearing a blue streak. "Has anyone made it out yet?" he interrupted himself to ask.

"Three might have-" Nine began, but was interrupted by a harsh negative from Two.

"He didn't. I saw it."

"Sithspit," Poe cursed. "Come on, people, the New Republic is depending on us. We have to get word to the fleet." The commander sounded more desperate than Breha had ever heard him, almost panicky.

"For kriff's sake, we're Rogue Squadron. If anyone can do this…"

Poe's voice trailed away. They didn't need him to finish the statement; if anyone _could _do this, it was the Rogues. The problem was, against odds like this, maybe no one could.

"No," Breha said softly, more to herself than anyone else. "No, they don't win that easily. Come on, Twelve." She banked hard to port, exposing her belly to the turbolasers of the Star Destroyer below but only for an instant; at top speed she blew along the length of the long capital ship so quickly the gunners couldn't react fast enough to track her with their sights. Jaen stuck tight on her tail.

"I see our exit route," Breha shouted into the comm, barreling away from the Star Destroyer and toward the knot of support ships clustered behind it. "Right through those shuttles-"

"Fly between them?" Jaen yelped. "Are you crazy?"

"As a Rogue!" Breha retorted, laughing. "Come on, we'll shake half these TIEs when they bank-off to avoid crashing into their buddies. Like an Ackbar Slash with collisions instead of crossfire. It's genius."

"Provided we don't end up smeared on someone's viewport too," Jaen muttered.

Breha ignored him. "Start calculating our hypserspace route," she ordered her own astromech. "We'll jump as soon as we get through." The droid warbled an affirmative and one of the many screens on Breha's cockpit began to flicker and glow as numbers scrolled past too fast to read.

The two X-Wings bobbed and juked their way through the crowded cluster of shuttles and dreadnoughts and other assorted support vehicles. Breha noticed several blocky troop transport ships and grimaced at the thought of regiments of stormtroopers marching up Coruscant's wide lanes. She pushed the image away; now was no time to let herself get distracted. A moment's inattention here would leave her snubfigher as nothing but a rapidly-cooling ball of gas and debris, and her with it.

The fact that whatever Imperial ship she hit would also likewise be vaporized, or at least severely crippled, by the collision was small consolation.

The explosions as various TIE fighters-hampered by their blockier profiles and wide solar wings, as well as by their pilots' no doubt inferior flying abilities-failed to avoid those collisions themselves in their attempts to pursue the two fleeing X-Wings was much more encouraging, although it still wouldn't do the New Republic any good if at least one Rogue couldn't manage to get away from this fight to summon help.

"It's working!" Jaen exclaimed as the crowded space-lanes in front of them began to open up into empty void. "It's actually working!"

"Don't get cocky," Breha scolded her wingmate. "More room to fly in just means they have more room to shoot us."

"Copy, Eleven," Jaen grumbled. He juked his snubfighter to port in time to avoid a barrage of turbolaser fire from one of the passing ships. A moment later he said, "Calculations finalizing. Ready to jump in twenty."

Breha nodded an affirmative and squeezed the trigger as her target screen locked on a troop transport. Her last two proton torpedoes flashed out in a streak of blue and turned the blocky transport ship into an explosion large enough to rattle her X-Wing. The feeling of all those lives snuffed-out reverberated through the Force with even more intensity, making Breha shiver, but she gritted her teeth and let the burst of anguish pour through her like water through a sieve. _It's for the greater good _, she told her wailing heart. The fewer stormtroopers who lived to make it to the surface, the fewer Coruscanti citizens who would die at their hands.

The massive explosion had the added benefit of knocking the last two TIEs chasing them out of the battle: one catching a piece of debris through his viewport that added his ship to the conflagration and the other spiraling into an evasive barrel roll that ended when her ship collided with the engines of a _Lambda_-shuttle that had gotten a little too close to the action.

"Nice shot!" Jaen crowed, and Breha swallowed hard.

She resisted the urge to snarl at him-Jaen had no more connection to the Force than did Breha's father, or the rest of their squadronmates; he couldn't feel the Imperials die-and said instead, "Break to point 0.2 and lock in final coordin-_wait-! _"

A premonition in the Force that had nothing to do with her own immediate danger gripped Breha and she raked her eyes across the battle readout in front of her. Something was wrong…

"Eleven? What is it?"

Jaen's voice penetrated her fog and Breha shook her head.

"It's nothing," she lied. "Get ready to jump."

Jaen reached forward to flick the switches that would close his s-foils and switch his engines from sublight to hyperdrive. A few meters away, Breha started to do the same and hesitated. "Did you see if any of the others made it yet?" Jaen was asking.

"No idea," Breha replied, distracted. She was still staring at the readout, searching for the root of her concern. There was something...over _there_...

"Breha!" Jaen's shout barely made her twitch. "What's wrong? Are your s-foils damaged?"

"No," Breha said, shaking her head again. Her ship was starting to pull away from Jaen's almost without her needing to steer it. "No, I'm fine. I just have something to take care of first."

"What are you talking-?"

"Make the jump. I'll be right behind you." Breha pulled on her piloting yoke, looping her X-Wing into a long curve back toward the battle.

"Wait, I'll come with-"

"No!" Breha barked. "That's an order. Get word to the fleet."

"Where are you going?"

"To stop the commander from doing something stupid."

"Breha-!"

"Go, ensign!" Breha shouted. A moment later, Jaen's ship elongated and winked-out. Breha didn't see it; she was already spinning her X-Wing in a tight, rolling dive toward the malevolent wedge of the enormous Super Star Destroyer.


	8. Chapter Eight

**A FEW PARSECS FROM CORUSCANT, 40 YEARS ABE:**

Han's hand slapped down on the hyperdrive levers and yanked them back, jolting the ship back into realspace. The swirl of hyperspace travel through the viewport dissolved abruptly into ordinary starfield once more although the alarms did not stop ringing.

"-too close to a supernova!" See-Threepio was wailing.

"Shut-up!" Han snarled. "Chewie, damage report?"

The Wookiee's paws were already dancing across the console and he rumbled a complicated string of growls and yips that had Han nodding, grim-faced and sober. Chewbacca sounded unhappy but subdued; it was too late to change what had happened now and he knew that risky as Han's choice to jump without calculations had been, they hadn't had much alternative.

Leia as yet knew no such thing, nor was she aware of the precise circumstances under which they had jumped to hyperspace-only that the journey had been _too short _. "Don't tell me the hyperdrive is broken again?" she said as she hurried in, voice raised to be heard over the shrilling alarms.

"It's worse than that," Han muttered, leaning over the damage display. "Looks like we've got a cascade-burn starting in the engine room...Bail!" he shouted unnecessarily, pressing the intercom button and holding it down with white knuckles. "The engine's on fire, go put it out!"

"On my way," came Bail's measured response through the cockpit speaker; he had flown on the _Millennium Falcon _too often to be nonplussed by comments like "the engine's on fire."

Leia, somehow, retained her ability to be surprised-or maybe she simply derived pleasure from preserving the fiction of shock and the opportunities thus offered for her and her husband to snipe at one another. "The engine's on fire?" she repeated. "Han-"

"Don't worry about it," Han said. Chewbacca _wuffed _his disagreement but quietly, shaking his head more to himself than at Han; he, too, was no newcomer to the realities of life on the _Falcon _.

"Mistress Leia!" Threepio cried, golden arms waving in distress, "Mistress Leia! This madman must be removed from command of the ship for all our safety!" Leia was already shaking her head, moving forward to lean over her husband's shoulder and inspect the damage reports for herself, Threepio's melodramatic lamentations another reality of life that she had long ago learned to dismiss-but then the fussy protocol droid said, "Engaging the hyperdrive without navigational coordinates is a clear violation of sane spaceflight procedure and-"

Leia's head whipped around so fast her hairbuns wobbled. She stared at her husband. "A blind hyperspace jump?" It came out as more accusation than question, easily outdoing the alarms. "You put us into a blind hyperspace jump?"

"For a second," Han admitted defensively. "We had to get out of there before that Super Star Destroyer turned us all into free-floating atoms, and the navicomputer-"

Chewbacca roared, waving one shaggy hand in the general direction of the now-blank viewports.

"A second of blind travel in hyperspace translates to hundreds of parsecs!" Leia shot back. "We could have died-"

"And if we'd hung around long enough for the navicomputer to finish calculating a jump, we would have!"

Han and Leia glowered at each other, two sets of brown eyes narrowed and pale cheeks red. She planted her fists on her hips; he crossed his arms over his chest. In the co-pilot's seat, Chewbacca continued to flip switches and check read-outs. As he twisted a blinking dial the piercing alarm finally shut-off, leaving everyone's ears ringing in the sudden silence.

Bail walked into the cockpit looking calm, although his brown hair was dishevelled and there was a smudge of soot across one cheek and in several places on his brown robes. "The fire's out," he said mildly. "What did dad do now?"

"Only saved all our skins," Han said tartly. "You're welcome."

"Only risked all our lives with a truly idiotic, brainless-"

Chewbacca's rumbling growl cut-off the argument.

Leia took a deep breath. "You're right, Chewie," she said, smoothing her hair back primly. "We can finish this later, after we've contacted the fleet." She turned toward the navicomputer and paused to eye her husband. "Provided your father doesn't mind if we make our next jump _after _we have the coordinates plotted?" she asked sweetly.

"Be my guest," said Han in a voice that dripped with sarcastic politeness in equal measure to that of his wife and sweeping his arm toward the navicomputer in a low bow.

Bail stepped over behind Threepio's chair and folded his hands in front of him, the patient stance doing nothing to conceal the way he rolled his eyes at his parents' antics as Han poked at the controls in front of him and Leia pressed buttons on the navicomputer. Her lofty expression faded into a frown and her button-pushing became sharper, more staccato. Eventually she swore.

"It's scrambled," Leia announced. "Even Coruscant isn't coming up right."

"It lost triple zero?" Bail said, raising his eyebrows. "You're kidding."

"Where did you pick up military slang like-never mind," Leia said, shaking her head. "Jaen, of course."

"Syal, actually," Bail corrected, moving forward so he could look over his mother's shoulder. "But that's not really relevant to...uh-oh."

Leia nodded. "Uh-oh indeed," she said. She looked up and met Han's eyes as he leaned back around his seat to watch. "Threepio, see if you can make sense out of this." Leia waved the droid forward.

She didn't look particularly hopeful as she moved herself and Bail aside so the droid could shuffle over to the navicompuer and plug in. Threepio's yellow eyes flickered several times as his processor interfaced with the ship's computer brains, then he looked up and shook his head. "I'm not sure if it was feedback from the turbolaser strike that interrupted the initial calculations, or a result of Captain Solo's ill-advised unplotted hypserpace jump, but this navicomputer's data has been irrevocably corrupted."

Han and Chewie exchanged a look. "We're in trouble," Han muttered. Chewbacca barked.

"This probably isn't a good time to mention that the hyperdrive got a little fried before I could get the fire out, is it?" Bail said. "I don't think we're going to get more than one or two jumps out of it before it shatters."

"Replacement navigational data could be downloaded from the Holonet," Threepio continued primly, "but our long-range communications don't seem to be functioning."

Chewbacca _wuffed _an explanation, shoulders slumping.

"What do you mean, _gone?" _Leia asked, eyes widening. "The whole dish? But how-"

"When the Super Star Destroyer shot at us, I bet," Bail suggested. He looked down at his mother, frowning. "That's not something we can jury-rig back together."

"We're in trouble," Han repeated.


	9. Chapter Nine

**THE SKIES ABOVE CORUSCANT, 40 YEARS ABE:**

When the stout and stalwart Ito turned her smoking, sparking X-Wing toward the bridge of the nearest Star Destroyer and crashed through the transparisteel viewport in a more successful reprise of Rogue Four's last moments, Poe let out an oath so foul it made BB-8 whistle. Ito had been a Rogue even longer than him and her loss felt like the end of an era-and maybe it was, Poe thought dismally. Maybe this battle would be Rogue Squadron's nightswan song-but if this was to be their end, then it would be a battle the Empire would never forget, Poe vowed.

He turned his X-Wing back toward the now-burning Star Destroyer, Leeso tucked in tight on his tail without a word of complaint or question despite the fact that he was flouting his own orders to head straight for hyperspace and not look back.

He only realized it was a mistake after seven vaped TIEs and too many close calls to count. Swearing floridly he drew his attention back to the flashing readouts and screens of his cockpit, and the shrill beeping of his BB-8 astromech droid, who was unleashing a lecture that, despite consisting solely of beeps and trills and whistles, would have done Leia Organa-Solo proud.

"I know, I know!" Poe snapped back, half-annoyed and half-apologetic. "Dammit, someone has to have made it out…"

"Eleven and Twelve might have, sir." Leeso's voice was as rough and cold as ever, but her words filled Poe with a brimming warmth. "I caught sight of them near the edge of the engagement a few minutes ago."

"Yeah?" he said. He found that somehow despite everything, he was grinning. He could hardly have hoped for a better outcome-well, all right, he _had _hoped for a better outcome, but if only one pair of Rogues was going to make it out of this furball alive, he couldn't think of anyone he would rather it be than the pair that included Leia's daughter.

"Eleven here, sir, sorry." Breha's voice-tense, breathless, strained-dashed his hopes as efficiently as a bucket of ice water. He watched her X-Wing tearing its way through the seemingly endless swarm of TIEs and felt his stomach sinking into his stupid shiny dress boots. Then she said, "Twelve made it, though." She hesitated, thinking about the damage his ship had taken, then added in a softer voice, "I'm sure he did."

Poe let out his breath in a rush. "Okay," he said, trying to smile again. At least the word would reach the fleet...and if he died here, he would never need to face Leia and explain how he had let her daughter get vaped on his watch. "Well, let's see if we can go for a little redundancy. Eleven, Two, I want you to pair-up and punch your way back planetside. They won't expect that." Poe juked and jinked and cycled his lasers as he spoke, multitasking with the grace of a lifetime's worth of experience; the green laserblastes flashing past his cockpit barely made him blink. "Then you can slingshot around the other side and make for hyperspace from there. It's the long way around," he added with something approaching his usual humor, "but better late than never."

"And where will you be, sir?" Leeso asked coolly, her own laser drilling a neat hole through the cockpit of a hapless TIE that strayed across her firing arc.

With only three X-Wings left-Poe hadn't seen what had happened to Nine, but he had heard the scream-the TIEs were clustering so badly that they got in each other's way more often than they got a clean shot on the Rogues. That wasn't much comfort, since even a sloppy shot could kill and the sheer volume of green lasers currently filling the skies over Coruscant were overwhelming enough that they would get lucky eventually, but Poe would scrape whatever scraps of hope he could from the dregs the galaxy was offering today. _The turbolasers have stopped too _, he told himself with forced cheer, refusing to allow his brain to entertain the follow-up thought that the big guns had powered-down only because there was no reason for overkill like that when there were a good hundred TIEs out here for for each X-Wing.

"I'll be shooting for deep space from here," Poe explained to his wingmate. His tone was light; the grip of his hands on his control yoke was tight. "I should be able to draw most of them after me; I'll be a higher priority target than two ships retreating dirtside. If one of you could get your astromech to make some smoke or sparks to sell the illusion of damage…"

"Sir, you are aware that there are approximately three-hundred and seventy TIEs currently in Coruscant airspace?" Leeso asked.

Poe almost squirmed and turned the discomfort into a quick roll that let him snap-off a shot that turned a luckless TIE fighter into a ball of superheated gas and flame. "I didn't do a headcount, but yeah," he admitted.

"Then, sir, even if you draw-off seventy percent of them, there will still be an overwhelming number left to follow the lieutenant and myself-"

"All right, all right, so it's a crappy plan," Poe interrupted. "Do you have a better one?"

"Yes," said Leeso, shocking him. "The odds of success are miniscule, though."

"Perfect," said Poe, diving so close between a pair of TIEs that his upper starboard s-foil scraped a deep gouge in one solar array. "Let's hear it."

"I jump to hyperspace right here. The two of you line-up exactly behind me and each follow a second later."

"That's suicide!" Breha yelped before she could stop herself.

"Only for the first ship," Leeso said coolly. "Maybe the second. My passage may clear the way enough to allow-"

"All right," said Poe. "But I'll go first. I'm in command."

"Sir-"

"That's an order, Two," Poe snarled.

Silence-except for the constant roar of the battle swirling around them-held for a long moment before it was broken by BB-8's soft, mournful trill. For once, Poe ignored his loyal droid.

"As you wish, sir," Leeso growled.

"Commander…" Breha whispered; Poe ignored her, too.

"This is going to be tricky to line-up," he warned them both. "Especially without getting vaped." His mind raced, moving through the possibilities as quickly as his ship blazed through vacuum. He smiled. "Time for some good old fashioned TRD, I think."

Leeso groaned but Breha gave an eager whoop. She was the daughter of heroes of the First Death Star; much as the phrase "Trench Run Disease" gave Imperials nightmares, for her it had been the stuff of bedtime stories and childhood games. Poe felt a little better; the odds of Rogue Eleven surviving this crazy scheme were slim, but if it failed at least she would die with a smile on her face.

"All right," said Poe, "follow me on my mark. Three...two...one...MARK!"

In almost perfect unison the three X-Wings banked away from the cloud of TIEs and dove for the surface of the Super Star Destroyer. Green light strafed around them and Poe forced himself not to look at the readouts on the strength of his deflector shields; after a dogfight like this they had to be nearly depleted despite his and BB-8's best efforts at balancing and cycling them. One lucky hit, and he'd be blown to smithereens like the rest of his squadron. Leeso and Breha were sure to be in similar straights. Their only chance was to get low fast, ducking _under _the Super Star Destroyer's deflector shields, where the pursuing TIEs would hesitate about letting too many wild shots gouge divots in that pristine pale gray surface.

That there would be pursuit Poe did not doubt; while TRD was actually relatively ineffective on capital ships, Imperials had an almost pathological fear of little snubfighters getting too close to their hulls-a sort of shared cultural reaction to the loss of two monolithic battlestations to the predations of "insignificant" little snubfighters.

Poe grinned, knowing that he had to be making a lot of Imps sweat right now.

Breha felt laughter bubbling up in her throat and swallowed it down hurriedly; the last thing she wanted was for either of her superior officers to hear her having hysterics right now-and she wasn't; it was just a great deal of emotional upheaval in a short space of time: losing most of her comrades, watching a peace treaty turn into an attack in an eyeblink, worrying about her mother and brother and father, wondering if Jaen would make it to the fleet with his damaged fighter...and now, flying down the belly of a Super Star Destroyer like she was Uncle Luke going after the First Death Star.

It was tricky, terrain-following flying and she had to concentrate on what she was doing: sticking close enough to the hull to be under the deflector shield, but alert enough to bob up and weave around any of the myriad of protrusions that dotted a hull that only looked sleek from a distance-including turbolaser emplacements; while most gunners wouldn't risk hitting their own ship by trying to target a small, evasive craft like an X-Wing that was flying so close to its durasteel plates, a particularly enterprising or reckless gunner might well take a chance on those times when Breha or one of the others had to rise a little to crest some inconvenient stack of pipes or cowling. And then there were the TIEs behind them. While the amount of fire being directed toward her and the other Rogues had slackened it had not tapered off completely. A few stray shots from a tiny snubfighter wouldn't be crippling to a ship this large and the TIEs chasing them continued to shoot whenever they thought they had a lock on a target.

It meant that in addition to delicate terrain following flying, Breha also had to maintain a constant erratic pattern of evasive maneuvers-made even trickier by the fact that the TIEs could see said terrain in front of her too, and thus knew when she would need to rise or sideslip to avoid an obstacle. It should have been the most harrowing, horrifying flight of Breha's life-but it wasn't.

Somehow she felt completely at peace, as though her body and ship had merged into one and the whole galaxy was whispering in her ear, telling her when to twist and turn and roll. She had to fight the mad urge to close her eyes, as relaxed as though she were sleeping-or meditating. She felt like she was back at the Jedi Training Academy with Uncle Luke's voice in her ear or the soft chords of Master Tionne's double viol washing over her.

The calm snapped abruptly as Commander Dameron's voice announced, "All right BB-8, transmit the calculations. Two, Eleven, get ready to break up relative perpendicular on my mark. Match velocity and follow me _exactly _. Eleven, you get in tight behind Two and follow her. We jump at one second intervals, starting with me and ending with Eleven. Copy?"

"Copy, Leader," Leeso said automatically.

Breha had to swallow before she could force herself to say, "I copy, One."

"Then may the Force be with us," said Poe. "Three...two...one...MARK!"

The three X-Wings shot upright in a perfect line, Poe's ship in the lead and Breha's following last. As they left the relative safety of the Super Star Destroyer's hull, TIE fighters swarmed in around them. A flurry of green laserblasts unleashed in a nearly blinding cloud. Breha's ship shuddered under the impact of what felt like a dozen glancing blows and she gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to roll away from the line of fire.

"Close s-foils!" Poe ordered, and all three ships snapped theirs shut in preparation for the jump to hyperspace. "Jumping in three, two-Sithspit!"

Poe's X-Wing gave a strange, wobbling jerk and lurched almost to a dead stop in midair. Leeso cut her ship into an almost ninety-degree turn, tight as a TIE, shooting out away from Poe's stricken snubfigher; Breha, less experienced, didn't realize what was happening until the tractor beam snagged her ship, too.

Helpless, she yanked futilely on her control yoke as she watched Leeso's X-Wing disappear into a knot of TIE fighters. The darker ships swarmed and spiraled around the lone X-Wing like insects dragging a feast into their hive. In only seconds, every trace of Rogue Two's ship had vanished from view. Breha tried to comfort herself with the fact that she had seen no explosion, but she knew that not every snubfighter's life ended so vividly-and furthermore the number of TIEs between her and Leeso acted as a near-impenetrable screen. There were so many of the little round ships roiling and twisting in the vacuum between them that Breha wasn't sure she would have seen an explosion even if one had occurred.

"Two!" Poe bellowed into the comm unit. "Rogue Two, report! Leeso?"

There was no answer.

A cold, hollow certainty settled over Breha like a slow swell of ice-cold water. She knew, as surely as if she had read it in plain Basic scrolling across the readouts in front of her, that she couldn't break the tractor beam's lock. It didn't matter how hard she fought, she was _caught… _but there were alternatives to fighting.

With a deep, heavy breath, Breha lifted her hands away from the piloting yoke. "They've got us, Shaker," she announced to the small, round astromech droid sitting in the X-Wing's socket a few feet behind her.

The ship's internal comm circuitry transmitted her words to where the droid sat in the merciless, soundless expanse of vacuum. The same closed-loop direct-noise transmission piped his mournful whistle through her cockpit to her ears even as the screen to the right of her targeting system scrolled the translated words of his response for her eyes. The little droid agreed with her.

_"_There's too much data in your systems and in the ship's navicomputer that we can't let the Imps—or whoever these sithspawn are—get their hands on," Breha continued. She swallowed hard and found, not entirely to her surprise, that she had to blink hard to hold back a fresh bank of tears.

Another, sadder whistle, this time underscored by a few resolute beeps. Breha didn't need to look at the translation screen to know what Shaker was saying, but she did anyway. These were going to be some of the last words her faithful little droid ever uttered; the least she could do was read them all.

_"_I'm sorry," she said, forcing the words out around the lump in her throat. "I'm going to miss you."

Shaker let out a long, sad little trill—he would miss her, too.

Breha dashed the back of one gloved hand across her cheeks, wiping away her tears. "Okay," she said, and forced herself to straighten, to reach for the buttons of the ship's computer. "Inputting the codes you need now…"

The other X-Wing moving alongside Breha's on that steady, inexorable journey into the Super Star Destroyer's hanger jerked and wobbled restlessly. Inside the cockpit, Poe Dameron let loose with a string of angry swear words that stretched across a galaxy's worth of languages as he wrestled with his piloting yoke. "I know!" he shouted at the little droid plugged into the starship's socket behind him. "I know! What does it look like I'm doing?"

The orange and white BB-8 unit warbled and bleeped at him enthusiastically, but neither the droid nor the pilot could do anything more to break the tractor beam lock than had Breha and slowly, helplessly, both ships arced into the hanger.

Dameron's was first and as his ship crossed the magcon field barrier that held the vacuum at bay he grumbled, "All right, all right, I'm setting it down. I said I'm setting it down!" he shouted. It wasn't clear whether he was shouting at the droid, at the unseen forces manipulating his ship, or merely at the galaxy at large. "Repulsors," he muttered, "landing gear, blah blah blah…serve them right if I turned off the landing protocols and made them drag us in on our belly, scrape the kriff out of their nice shiny hanger…"

Despite his unhappy muttering, Poe engaged the landing cycle and allowed his small starship to come to a gentle landing inside the hanger. He couldn't help looking up at the tall ceiling far above him, or at the rows and rows of TIE fighters stacked along the walls; it was clear that the Super Star Destroyer had not fielded even a third of its starfighter screen for the assault on Coruscant. In his heart, the commander of Rogue Squadron was offended that any ship should feel confident enough in a conflict with the Rogues to hold ships in reserve, but underneath his cocky fighter pilot bravado he knew—they hadn't stood a chance against a force like this anyway, not one lone squadron of X-Wings, no matter _how _famous their exploits or brave their pilots.

Likewise he didn't stand a chance against the detachment of stormtroopers jogging forward toward his ship, their blasters held at the ready. He thought fleetingly of strafing them with his turbolasers, but dismissed the idea; he was already at the Imperials' mercy and killing other sentients (even stormtroopers) when it served no purpose would be a vile act. Besides, the idea of shooting people with a ship's lasers made his stomach churn.

He wondered if the stormtroopers had paused to think about the possibility of his vaping them from his ship. He wondered if stormtroopers even knew how to feel fear. It was impossible to tell if they felt anything at all behind those grim white helmets. Certainly none of them seemed to flinch as they lined up in front of his ship and waited for him to exit.

Grimacing and wishing that his flimsy dress uniform had included a blaster at his side, Poe hit the button to raise the hatch of his X-Wing. "Just stay chilly, buddy," he muttered to the droid behind him. "Maybe they won't notice you." He raised his hands over his head before he started to rise, just in case any of the stormtroopers below were feeling nervous.

BB-8 warbled uncertainly and Poe forced a smile for him. "Hey," he started to say, "you never know what—"

His words were cut off by the sudden, soft _whump _of a small explosion.

Half-raised from his seat, Poe spun around to stare as Breha's X-Wing canted sideways in a shower of sparks and smoke. It had barely crossed the threshold of the magcon shield when it slammed to the ground, one pair of wings crumpling beneath its weight. The astromech in the back of the ship wailed in distress.

Three-quarters of the stormtroopers whirled to point their blasters at the smoking X-Wing; the rest held to their discipline and kept their attention on Poe, although he was too flabbergasted to move, let alone try and make a break for it. He stared as the canopy of the other X-Wing started to raise, hitched and stuck, and then slammed open as Breha shoved it the rest of the way up manually.

She stood in the cockpit, smoke pouring across the glistening orange of her dress uniform, and stared at the stormtroopers for a moment. Then she, too, raised her hands.

_"_Port repulsor blew," she announced in a carrying voice. "One of the TIEs must have strafed it in the furball, and the pressure of the tractor beam overloaded it."

Poe frowned—that didn't sound right—but nodded. "Good landing," he called sarcastically.

_"E chu ta," _Breha responded. She turned, shot a look at her still-wailing droid who abruptly fell silent, and then slithered down from her cockpit. She raised her hands again the moment her boots hit the deckplates and she turned and straightened slowly as two dozen stormtroopers raced forward to take her into custody.

Poe, grimacing again, hopped down from his own X-Wing and repeated Breha's careful surrender. He felt sick inside, but fighting further wouldn't accomplish anything other than to get himself and his lieutenant—not to mention both droids—killed in a hail of blasterfire. Like most pilots of Rogue Squadron, Poe Dameron would have been content to go out in a blaze of suicidal glory for the good of the mission, or of the New Republic—but dying now would gain him nothing.

Better to wait, learn what he could, and fight again later.

Breha seemed to feel the same way about it, since she allowed the stormtroopers to take her helmet, manacle her, and march her roughly over to join Poe, who was grimly permitting his own white-clad guards to slap identical binders around his gloved wrists. They were none too gentle, but they weren't overly rough either. Poe got the impression that they weren't going out of their way to manhandle him; it was just that gentleness was not a natural trait of stormtroopers. _Go figure _, he thought drily, and turned to inspect Breha as she approached.

She was a slim brunette woman with a pale complexion, standing roughly halfway between her mother and father's height. Her face was grimy with tear-streaks; a side effect of the smoke he assumed, since Breha wasn't the sort of person who would willingly let the enemy see her cry. She didn't seem to have been hurt by the little crash, but he couldn't stop himself worrying: he was her squadron commander. That made her his responsibility, whether they were in vacuum or in the middle of an Imperial Super Star Destroyer.

He'd have preferred the vacuum.

Once they stood side by side, the two pilots were turned by their captors to face yet another detachment of stormtroopers marching toward them. They were led by a large trooper in gleaming silver armor, a thick black cape slung across her shoulders and a heavy blaster rifle cradled in her arms. Their footsteps rang crisply on the metal deckplates in nearly perfect unison.

_"_All this for us?" Poe muttered out of the side of his mouth. "Seems a little excessive."

_"_Speak for yourself," Breha croaked back. "I'd say it's about kriffing time _somebody _gave me a royal welcome. My mom used to be a princess, you know."

_"_Sure they aren't just impressed by your dad's smuggling career?"

_"_They would be if they had any brains," Breha retorted.

_"_Quiet," the stormtrooper holding Poe's arm growled, giving the pilot a shake.

_"_Do they not know they captured Rogues?" Poe asked, looking at Breha askance. "Quiet isn't exactly what we're known for, my friends," he continued, raising his voice slightly to make sure that the stormtroopers approaching could hear what he said too. "Impossible victories? Yes. Equally impossible good looks and charm? Also yes. The ability to cause Imperials to break-out into cold fear sweat at the mere sight of our ships? You'd better believe it. But _quiet _isn't really something we—"

Once again Poe's words were cut-off by an explosion, but a much larger one this time. Everyone spun to stare at the source: Breha's X-Wing, which went up in a sudden enormous fireball. Lights flashed all over the hanger and alarms began to sound. Even BB-8 looked to see what was happening, rising from his socket and stretching his little neck forward with a startled, saddened warble for the loss of Shaker. Only Breha did not turn; under the cover of everyone's distraction she looked down at her wrists and narrowed her eyes in a frown, popping her cuffs off with a quick application of the Force. One of the stormtroopers looked at her, started to say, "Hey—!"

Then the reason for the alarms sank in: the magcon field flickered, sparked, and collapsed.

_"_Warning," a computerized voice announced, "magcon failure. Decompression imminent. Warning. Evacuate hanger Besh Three immediately. Decompression imminent. Warning—"

Poe stopped listening. He spun to face his own X-Wing and the little droid standing atop it. "BB-8," he shouted, "get out of—"

And then with a sudden rush of wind, the last of the lights that indicated the presence of the magcon field went off and with them, the field itself. The hanger was abruptly opened to the cold void of space. The cold, _hungry _void, which immediately sucked into it every scrap of air inside the hanger—and with it, everything that wasn't nailed down, from ships to tools to crew.

The large blast doors at the end of the hanger began to iris shut. Screams and shouts raised from the troopers, pilots, and mechanics who filled the large room. They would have been running for the door except that the wind pulled everyone off their feet and sucked them quickly toward the void and the certain death that waited there—everyone except for Poe and Breha.

As his feet went out from under him—went out from under _all _of them, stormtroopers and prisoners alike—Breha reached toward Poe with one hand and a sudden, sharp tug of pressure jerked him sideways against the rush of air. She folded her fingers tightly around his bound wrists, then extended her other hand toward the closing doors. Another burst of pressure tugged at them both and they were suddenly moving forward, against the wind. Poe squinted into the unforgiving breeze, his mouth open and gaping, and then he figured it out: the Force. She was using the Force to drag them forward, while all around them everything and everyone else was vented into the void.

Desperate troopers grabbed for whatever handhold they could reach—a TIE fighter's landing struts, a repulsor fork's front prongs, their own comrade's legs or arms—but the void's hunger was relentless and their own strength was limited. As Poe watched, he saw first one and then another trooper lose their grip and go flying away out the open hanger behind him. Even the heavy equipment wasn't immune to the pull: TIEs shook in their moorings and one improperly-secured ship snapped its tether and whirled away, crashing into three others and triggering another explosive cascade as it went. The heat barely ghosted across Poe's back before it was gone, dragged into the chill of space.

The lead stormtrooper, the one in silver armor, had somehow managed to punch a handhold straight through the deckplates. She held herself crouched there, feet braced behind her and cloak streaming over her shoulders. She met Poe's eyes with her own blank helmeted gaze and raised her blaster rifle one-handed. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to shout a warning to Breha, but then one of the stormtrooper's feet slipped and she lost her grip. Still clutching her blaster, she blew backwards out the wide hanger door. With her free hand she grabbed at her belt, as though she might possibly have something there that could save her, but it was too late; she vanished into the void, leaving Poe and Breha to continue moving forward.

It wasn't fast going; the strength of the vacuum's pull dragged at them. Breha gritted her teeth, pulling them forward against it, gaining ground slowly—but all the while, the alarms were flashing and the doors were slowly closing. If they didn't get through the opening in time, they would be as dead as the hapless stormtroopers spinning past them.

As they approached the threshold, the rush of air increased due to the funneling effect of the narrow opening. Breha almost lost her grip on Poe's wrist but he managed to twist within the binders and wrap the fingers of one gloved hand around the back of hers, clutching at her desperately. Sweat trickled down Breha's face despite the chill temperature. They inched forward into the closing doorway. One of Poe's knees banged against the blast door and he winced. He hated being helpless, being dependant on someone else's skills (there was a reason he flew _solo _vehicles like X-Wings), but Poe was no Jedi; there was nothing he could do but cling to Breha and hope.

They collapsed heavily onto the ground on the other side of the blast door, which irised closed behind them. The roar of the wind died suddenly, but the shriek of alarms kept blaring. Poe scrambled to his feet and ran back the way they'd come, slamming himself into the door and staring through the little diamond-paned window in the middle.

The hanger was almost devoid of life now. The last gust of air from the closing doors tugged a heavy load lifter from its moorings and it, along with the four stormtroopers clinging to it, tumbled end over end toward the hanger door—and toward the X-Wing parked a few meters from the edge.

_"_No," Poe shouted, "no, BB-8! No!"

He clawed at the door with his bound hands but there was nothing he could do. The lifter hit the X-Wing and it and the snubfighter, with the little droid standing on it, were sucked out into space alongside a hail of flailing stormtroopers.

_"_BB-8!" Poe wailed.

Breha shook him by the shoulder. He tried to ignore her but she shook him again, forcing him to turn and face her. "Commander!" she shouted. "Poe! Come on." She popped his binders with the Force and tugged at his arm, trying to pull him down the corridor and away from the airless and empty hanger. "I'm sad about the droids too, but we have to keep moving."

_"_You're right," Poe said in a listless voice. He shook his head. "You're right." He fell into step next to her and together the two pilots jogged down the empty hallway.

_"_We couldn't let the Empire access their data," Breha explained. She sounded pained and tired from the strain of Force-pulling them out of the void. "We weren't prepared for a combat situation, so we—"

"—we didn't have their security protocols engaged, I know," Poe finished for her. "I know." He shook his head again and swallowed hard. "Let's just find a way out of here before—"

They turned the corner and almost plowed right into a column of stormtroopers jogging past down a perpendicular hallway. Poe threw an arm out and blocked the shorter girl from stumbling into the troopers, and the pilots scrambled backwards and pressed themselves against the side of the hallway. They stayed there, breathing hard, until the sound of booted feet faded into the distance.

_"_That was close," Breha breathed.

_"_What I wouldn't give for a blaster right now," Poe said. "These sithspawned flimsiplast dress uniforms don't even have pockets enough to carry a vibroblade…"

Breha shook her head in commiseration as they started off again, moving more cautiously this time. "Me, I'm kicking myself for not breaking protocol and insisting on wearing my lightsaber anyway."

Poe nodded. "Yeah, that'd come in handy right now," he agreed. "Still, I'd rather have some blasters. If we can find any stormtroopers traveling in less than squad strength, I say we try and pick 'em off and take their weapons."

Breha nodded. "You're the boss, boss," she said. She frowned speculatively. "Next time we see some, maybe I can try and Force-nudge a few into ditching their buddies…"

_"_Worth a try," Poe said. "Do you think your mom got—"

_"_Stop!" Breha gasped, her voice little more than a whisper but one tight and sharp with fear. She flung out a hand, catching Poe by the arm and yanking him to a halt next to her. Her brown eyes had opened so wide that the whites stood out around the irises like warning lights and her cheeks were paler than the bleak Imperial Gray of the walls around them.

Poe stopped, his own eyes widening in reaction to her fear. "What?" he whispered.

Breha shook her head. "I feel a…a presence…a _darkness…" _

The door at the end of the hallway opened with a pneumatic hiss. A slim figure in a long black cloak and faceless helmet stepped forward. The white-clad stormtroopers following in escort seemed more of an afterthought than anything else; menace radiated from the cloaked figure so strongly that even Poe, lacking his companion's Jedi senses though he was, could feel it.

_"_Run!" Breha cried.

The two Rogues turned and ran.

Behind them, the black-clad figure walked onwards in their wake.


	10. Chapter Ten

**A FEW PARSECS FROM CORUSCANT, 40 YEARS ABE:**

The cockpit of the _Millennium Falcon _was in disarray. Open panels exposed nests of wiring and diodes on the walls blinked in frantic, irregular flashes. The golden protocol droid C-3PO sat in the navigator's chair, his stiff body limp and his round eyes flickering. Wires stretched from his chest, neck, and hand to ports on the cockpit wall. Leia Organa-Solo sat in the chair usually claimed by Chewbacca, a datapad in her hand and a frown on her lined and lovely face. She was still dressed in the now-stained white robes she had been wearing at the aborted peace-signing but her face and hands were clean again and her cuts glistened with the faintly greenish gleam of bacta balm. A white bandage wrapped around a larger wound on one hand and another patch of white medical tape covered the gash where her chin had hit the permacrete.

The pilot's seat next to her held no pilot, but a pair of battered black boots protruded from beneath the cockpit controls and rested uncomfortably against the back of the seat. Aside from the periodic clatter of tools, jumping sparks, and swearing that rose from below those boots, there was nothing else to indicate the presence of Han Solo in his beloved ship. Of Chewbacca, there was even less visual sign but the distant and irregular grumble of Shyriiwook echoing down the corridor attested to his presence elsewhere on the _Falcon_.

Bail, still soot-stained but no longer giving off puffs of smoke, walked into the cockpit with a datapad in each hand. "I think we're in the Taanab system," he announced. "Chewie and I ran a visual analysis of the visible star patterns and managed to match them to archival-"

A loud clang from beneath the cockpit controls was followed by a louder curse and Han's boots swung out of view. With assistance from his wife, the old Corellian squirmed laboriously out from under the control panel. Rather than stand, he glared up at his son from where he sat wedged on the floor between the two front seats. "Taanab?" Han repeated, panting slightly. He sounded excited. "That means we're near the Perlemian Trade Route." He wiped the back of one half-gloved hand across his forehead, adding another smear of grease to the pattern already decorating his rugged features.

"What good does that do us?" asked Leia briskly. "Our personal comms still don't have enough range to reach Taanab from here. We'd have been picking up local signals already if we were close to any inhabited planets."

"Yes," Bail agreed politely, "but at least we know where we are. Chewie and I think that we can start reconstructing our navigational charts through visual scanning-"

"That will take weeks!" Leia exclaimed.

Bail nodded, his face drawn. "I know, mom. But it's the best we can do."

"The New Republic doesn't _have _weeks," said Leia.

"We don't need 'em," Han interrupted. His wife and son turned to stare at him with near-identical expressions of baleful concern on their faces. Han was grinning. "We can manage another jump or two before the hyperdrive crashes-right, Bail?" he said.

Bail nodded reluctantly. "Probably," he allowed.

"Then all we need are a set of destination coordinates. We can plot the jump manually."

Bail's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline as Leia's eyes narrowed to slits beneath tightly drawn brows. He opened his mouth, but she spoke first, her voice sharp: "You need more than a start point and an end point to plot a hyperspace jump."

Han levered himself to his feet-this time without any help from his wife, who had folded her arms over her datapad and was scowling at him-and rolled his eyes. "I know that," he said testily, rubbing his back and leaning over C-3PO's motionless form to start prodding at the navicomputer buttons. "But a little visual mapping will give us rudimentary stats of the local charts, and Chewie and I know the Perlemian Trade Route well enough to cobble-together a basic outline-"

"-which still only gets us local space," Leia reminded Han, "and no destination coordinates. Unless you're telling me you have Taanab's location memorized?"

Han shook his head. He glanced over his shoulder to grin at his wife. "Not Taanab," he said. "But we know someone who recently set up shop on Norulac…"

Leia sighed and lowered her forehead into the hand that wasn't currently full of datapad. "Lando," she said.

"Lando," Han confirmed. "And luckily, I happen to remember the coordinates he sent…"

Bail's eyes lit up. "We're going to see Uncle Lando?" he said.

"Providing the engines don't burn out on the way," Leia muttered. "And your father calculates the orbital drift right so we don't materialize inside a moon or somewhere on the other side of the galaxy…"

"Go tell Chewie to stop messing-around with the engines and come help me run these numbers," Han told his son. Bail raced off down the corridor as Han flicked the switch on C-3PO's neck and bellowed, "Hey, Goldenrod! Wake-up! We need your processors."

"Oh my," Threepio exclaimed as his eyes flickered back to their usual steady luminescence. "What have I missed?"

"Lando," Leia said. "We're going to Lando."

An excited Wookiee bellow reverberated down the hallway as C-3PO murmured, "Oh dear."


	11. Chapter Eleven

**THE SKIES ABOVE CORUSCANT, 40 YEARS ABE:**

Outside the Super Star Destroyer, doomed stormtroopers and broken equipment spiraled off together into the void of space amidst a gust of rapidly-dissipating oxygen. A moment later an X-Wing starfighter bearing the red side-stripe of Rogue Squadron followed, a white and orange astromech droid spinning away from it.

The little droid was simple in shape: a small sphere with a smaller half-sphere rotating around it for a head. It spun that head around now so that it could keep its optical sensors focused on the Star Destroyer even as its body twirled through the void. After a moment three small hatches on the droid twisted open and emitted short puffs of air.

After a few moments of calculation, the droid stopped its spin and then, once it was oriented to face the hull of the ship again, it issued a longer jet and propelled itself back towards the Super Star Destroyer.

Unnoticed by BB-8, a figure in silver armor pulled itself hand-over-hand along a grapple cable reaching back to the ship. Her long black cloak stuck out stiff and straight behind her, held in place by the flash-frozen moisture of the hanger's vanished atmosphere. Frost stretched in thin, fanlike coils across the blank black visor of her gleaming helmet.

Far below, Coruscant glittered like an obsidian jewel. Little patches of fire flared and died as the detritus from the blown hanger hit the atmosphere, ignited, and burned to ash. If the silver-clad stormtrooper mourned the companions lost to void or reentry flames, she hid her feelings behind her helmet and kept climbing.

**ABOARD** **_THE MALACHOR_****, 40 YEARS ABE:**

Inside the Super Star Destroyer, Poe Dameron and Breha Solo ran as if their lives depended on it.

_"_Where do we go?" Breha asked, shouting both from fear and in an attempt to be heard over the noise of their laboring breaths and rattling boots.

_"_I'm thinking!" Poe snapped back. "Um—this way!" He took a quick left turn down a crosscut hallway and Breha scrambled to follow. "If this thing is laid-out like a regular Impstar Super, this should take us to the auxiliary hanger maintenance corridors."

_"_You don't sound very certain," Breha said dubiously, but she didn't slack her breakneck pace.

_"_If you wanted certainty in your life you should have joined one of General Salm's squadrons, kid!" Poe shot back over his shoulder.

_"_Couldn't," Breha retorted breathlessly. "Uncle Wedge would have disowned me if I'd gone into Starfighter Command as anything but a Rogue!"

_"_That's true!" Poe agreed, breathing just as hard as the young Jedi, if not harder. "He took it hard enough when Syal opted for E-Wings instead of—"

_"_Stop!" Breha shouted, but it was too late: Poe had tripped the automatic sensor on the door in front of them. It swished open revealing the black-cloaked figure coming toward them down the hallway ahead, stormtroopers trotting along obediently beside. They were less than three meters away and closing briskly.

_"_How'd they _do _that?" Poe wondered, but Breha was already hauling on his arm.

_"_Dark Jedi!" she snapped. "Or Sith—I don't know! But definitely bad news!"

_"_You don't need to be trained in the Force to figure that out," Poe shouted as they sprinted off in the other direction, back towards the hallway junction. "All you need are eyeballs!"

_"_Well use yours to find us another path!" Breha said.

_"_Hold onto your hairbuns, kid, we'll get out of this yet," Poe assured his young pilot, but even as he spoke the door at the end of the next cross-hallway opened. It revealed another hanger, similar to the one that they had left moments ago, although this one still had a functioning magcon shield and, consequently, a full atmosphere along with its regular complement of mechanics and pilots.

Through the door stepped a tall, broad-shouldered figure clad in silver armor. Frost crusted the gleaming plates and stiffened the long black cloak that hung past the trooper's knees. She had no blaster in her hands this time, but the stormtrooper commander was unmistakable.

_"_Sithspit!" Poe shouted, skidding to a stop, Breha stumbling at his heels. "Wrong way!" he said, and the two turned around to run, but now the black-cloaked figure was walking up behind them. Both the black and silver figures were flanked by a dozen ordinary stormtroopers, all of them carrying blasters.

The two Rogues turned back and forth, looking for a way out. Breha looked up at the ceiling. "Maybe—" she began, but the black-clad figure raised a hand.

_"_Stop!" The voice was loud, crisp, and mechanical. It was also impossible to disobey. At the cloaked figure's gesture both Breha and Poe fell to their knees.

_"_Sith," Breha gasped, pressing her hands against the floor as though to fight a wave of dizziness.

_"_Not…exactly," the black-clad figure said. Despite the filtering helmet, amusement was plain in the soft words. "But you…you are quite definitely a Jedi."

Breha forced herself to look up at the dark and looming presence. "I am," she said, her voice clear and ringing. "I am Jedi Knight Breha Organa-Solo, and I am not afraid of you."

_"_Indeed?"

For a long moment silence stretched between the two figures, the orange and the black, broken only by the muffled clatter of boots as the stormtroopers clustered in behind their two masters. Then Poe raised a hand and said, "And I'm Commander Poe Dameron of Rogue Squadron. Not a Jedi. Also not afraid of you, for the record. Hi."

_"_Speak when spoken to, scum!" came another filtered voice, this one gruffer and angrier than the first.

It belonged to the silver armored stormtrooper who grabbed Poe's hair in one gauntleted fist and started to yank him backwards, but she stopped when the black-cloaked figure raised a hand.

_"_Enough, Phasma. This Commander Dameron is right: introductions should be made. It is only polite." A soft laugh followed the words, all the more chilling for its lightness. "It is a pleasure to meet you both, young Organa-Solo, young Dameron. You may call me Darth Revan."

Breha's eyes went wide. Poe started to open his mouth, unaware of Breha's shock and ready as ever with a smart-aleck remark, but Revan wasn't done speaking: "Now throw them in the brigg. I'll deal with them once Coruscant has fallen."

Revan turned in a swirl of black robes and strode off down the hallway, a detachment of stormtroopers falling in obediently behind.

_"_You heard the Dark Lord, scum," Phasma snapped. It wasn't clear if she was speaking to the Rogues or to her own soldiers. She yanked Poe upright by his hair while two other stormtroopers jumped forward to drag Breha to her feet. "Detention level—now!" Phasma barked and they moved out, Poe and Breha with their hands on their heads and the stormtroopers with their blasters raised and ready to fire.

Melting ice dripped off Phasma's cloak and pooled in her wake. Then a dozen marching feet smeared it across the deckplates, trampling the delicate ice crystals into oblivion.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**NORULAC, 40 YEARS ABE:**

The _Millennium Falcon _was a sorry sight as it shook and shuddered its way through the atmosphere of Norulac. The perpetually-rusting hull was further marred by blaster scarring and smoke issuing from its numerous wounds, and the large sensor dish that usually accented the top of the ship was completely gone. On a more crowded world, the arrival of a freighter in such a condition of obvious battle damage would have engendered a great deal of attention, but the mountainous planet below was sparsely settled.

The _Falcon _dropped several meters with an abrupt lurch and a fresh gout of thick black smoke, then wobbled back to level flight and began descending in a steeper arc as though the pilot was eager to land the ship before the controls failed completely. It came in low over a large cauldron lake-almost big enough to be declared a small sea-and headed for the thickest cluster of civilization visible on the surface: an ostentatious and elaborate resort brimming with luxuries and radiating artificial light in a dozen different colors. Against the low, late afternoon sunlight gilding the crystalline lake, it gave off an aura of tawdriness juxtaposed with elegance: the sort of place that would be frequented by those with more money than they knew what to do, but who still considered themselves-justifiably or not-to be tasteful and artistic individuals.

The place was the Tendrando Mountain Resorts and Casino and the _Millennium Falcon _would have been out of place among the expensive shuttles and yachts that filled its docking yards even if it hadn't been belching smoke and sparks. No one tried to prevent the aging Corellian freighter from landing, however; indeed, the platform to which the _Falcon _had been directed was one of the most prominent and desirably located and no sooner had the wheezing landing gear scraped against the pearly duracrete than the transparisteel doorway leading into the resort proper slid open to reveal a well-dressed elderly man who ran toward the ship without hesitation or dignity.

The hatchway of the _Falcon _opened and disgorged its passengers with similar haste. Leia was the first one down the ramp, still wearing her scorched white robes. Close on her heels followed Bail, Han, and Chewbacca, all three sporting progressively increasing coats of soot. See-Threepio came last of all, tottering stiffly in the rear like an ineffectual governess chasing their absconded charges.

Lando met Leia midway and clasped her hands together in both of his. "What's-" he began, but Leia was already speaking, cutting him off:

"The treaty was a ruse. The Empire attacked. We must contact the fleet immediately."

Lando didn't waste time asking foolish questions. "Of course," he said, nodding agreement. He spared a nod of greeting for the assorted males behind Leia as he turned, one hand resting lightly on the small of her back to guide her onward. She strode toward the resort at a brisk pace, giving the impression less of someone who needed to be guided than of a woman who would have walked through Lando if he had tried to delay her.

"Master Calrissian!" Threepio's cheerful voice rose from the rear of the little group and then trailed-off as the droid realized no one was listening. "What a pleasure it is to see you again, although admittedly these circumstances are not precisely what one might...ah..."

As the doors whooshed open upon their approach, he looked back at Han and asked, "Breha?"

Han's voice was as grim and set as his face. His fixed gaze didn't waver from the back of his wife's head. "She's with her squadron," he said.

Lando winced, looking sorry to have spoken. The little frown of worry between his brows deepened. Bail put a hand on his arm. "I'd know if she were hurt," he said softly, glancing over his shoulder to give his father a reassuring smile. If Han noticed he gave no sign, but Chewbacca warbled his own affirmative agreement with the young Jedi's statement.

"Good," said Lando somewhat weakly. "That's a relief, at least…"

None of the Organa-Solos appeared particularly comforted. Chewbacca barked an enquiry and Lando seized on the conversational offering with the air of a drowning man clutching a sturdy branch: "Yes," he said as they crossed the threshold of the opulent resort, "I suppose we have. It's nothing to rival the luxury resorts of Pantolomin or Spira or the casinos of Ord Mantell or even the _Kuari Princess _but it's certainly a step up from my old Bespin Holiday Towers, and we turn a tidy little prof-"

"Where's your nearest long-range communicator?" Leia interrupted.

"Almost there," Lando replied, switching gears smoothly from sales pitch to efficient host. He picked up the pace, almost jogging along the wood-panelled hallway in order to get in front of Leia. Artwork-a mixture of holo-reproductions and originals-dotted the walls, some showing scenes of Norulac and others the skylines and beaches and mountains of a dozen distant worlds. Next to a holographic reproduction of a moss painting from Alderaan, Lando spun to a stop and punched a series of buttons on the display card indicating title, artist, and world of origin. In most cases such a card would have also listed where the original was displayed, but for this piece there was nothing to list.

"Oh," Threepio piped-up, "a reproduction of an Alderaanian moss-painting, how elegant."

"We like to keep our monitoring stations and utility access points discreet," Lando explained absently as a panel in the wall popped loose and began to revolve. "Gives people the illusion of being off-the-grid, helps them relax…"

His words trailed-off as his brain caught up to the automatic patter; the Solos weren't here for relaxation. The Solos were here because the galaxy had just gone off the edge-_again_.

He grimaced and stepped up to the computer terminal revealed by the moving panel. "Just let me punch in my code to give you off-world access," he explained to Leia, suiting words to deed by doing just that and stepping quickly back. "Okay, you're good to go."

Leia barely spared him a nod of thanks before swooping forward and taking command of the terminal, her fingers flying over the keyboard and dials. She entered the long string of codes necessary for military communications from memory, eyes fixed on the screen as she waited for the reply that would indicate she had a secure connection.

Behind her, Lando eased himself over closer to Han, who was watching his wife as fixedly as she watched her screen. Lando cleared his throat. "So, uh...had a little trouble with my ship, I see," he said.

Han barely mustered a smile to accompany the automatic, "It's not your ship."

Lando grunted. "Still looks like you need some repairs...and I expect you're in a hurry."

Bail was the first to realize something wasn't right; he turned to stare at his adoptive uncle, brows furrowed in thought, but Chewbacca picked up on the same thing a few seconds later and tilted his head down to look at Lando as the handsome human continued: "I'll loan you one of my yachts. You can swap the transponder-I have some anonymous spares-and get back on the move within the hour. I'll see to the _Falcon _, tuck her somewhere out of sight for repairs and send her after you once she's spaceworthy again."

"Thanks," Han said absently, "but I'm not sure that'll be necessary. Repairs shouldn't take more than a few days, and I'm not sure the Republic will have anywhere urgent to send us-to send Leia, anyway-before that. The biggest headache is going to be downloading replacement nav data-"

"Forget about the loan," Lando interrupted. "Call it a gift. That way you don't need to worry about bringing it back in one piece."

He was trying to smile, but the expression kept slipping off his face, leaving strain and worry behind.

"Oh my," said Threepio, "that is quite generous, Master Calrissian!"

Han finally pried his eyes away from his wife (from the steadily increasing volume of her muttered curses, Leia wasn't having much luck getting through) and turned to look at his old friend. "What's the rush?" he asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"It's not my rush," Lando protested. He waved a hand toward Leia. "I just figure the princess will be in a hurry to get back to the fight-and the rest of you too, of course. I just want to help."

Han shook his head. "It sounds more to me like you're trying to get us out of here as fast as possible." His hand didn't stray toward the blaster on his hip, but he did adjust his posture as though bracing for a fight. "Why? What do you know we don't?"

"I don't know anything and I don't need to," Lando retorted shortly. "The way you showed up here tells me it's bad, and trouble has a way of spreading-and of following you." He swallowed, his shoulders sagging. "Han, I love you like the brother I never wanted, but I don't want to get caught-up in all this again. I have too much to lose. I have a life here-"

"So you'll just sit back in your plush resort and relax while we risk our lives to protect your cushy little life?" Han's voice was a snarl, his hands curling into fists at his side.

"Dad-" Bail reached for his father's arm but Han shook him off, never taking his eyes off his old friend.

"I say, Captain Solo-" Threepio began.

Chewbacca shook his head, barking his disappointment. Lando flinched, but stood his ground.

"I want to help you," he said, pleading for understanding-or maybe just for absolution. "I'm going to help you. I just...I can't lose it all again, Han. I did my fair share of fighting, and then I got out. Built a life, a home, a family-"

"So did I!" Han snapped. "What do you think I'm fighting to protect?"

"I resigned my commission!" Lando shouted back. Chewbacca roared, but Lando raised his voice over the Wookiee's bellow: "I'm not a General anymore! Neither are you!"

"I remind you I was an admiral-"

"And you hated every minute of it!" Lando cut him off. "You liked command even less than I did-"

"I still did it!" Han was shouting too now, Chewie bellowing over both of them. Threepio's desperate protests that they all calm down and discuss the matter civilly might as well have been spoken straight into the vacuum of space for all the notice anyone paid him. Bail sighed and pressed his fingertips together, lowering his head to rest on them. Leia ignored them all in favor of jabbing at the recalcitrant computer terminal.

Lando slumped, suddenly deflating. "So did I," he said softly. "I fought my fight. I'm done. Han, they don't need us. The New Republic has-"

"A Super Star Destroyer," Han interrupted. "That's what the Empire brought to the peace signing. A shiny new Super Star Destroyer."

"Along with a good-sized support fleet," Bail added without looking up.

Lando swallowed. "What?" he breathed. "The Empire doesn't have the resources left to-"

"Well they found them somewhere," said Han, voice grim.

Lando stared. "That's...that's impossible," he said, the words less of a statement and more of a prayer.

Han shook his head. "Impossible or not, they did it. We barely got out alive-and a lot of people didn't."

"Han…"

"I can't get through."

Leia's voice was sharp, frustrated, lined with fear. Everyone turned toward her, Bail looking up from his fingers and Lando's cape flapping weakly in the air.

"The fleet, I can't contact them. My codes should be good, but civilian equipment like this just isn't specced for transmissions on military channels, and at this distance-" She shook her head.

"Then we'll jump there directly," Han said. He whirled back to face Lando again. "I changed my mind," he said, "we'll take a ship. The fastest one you've got."

Lando looked suddenly unsure but all he said was, "Okay, I'll get my people to work swapping-in a clean transponder…"

"No time," Han said, before Leia could; Chewbacca _wuffed _agreement. "We'll take it how it is, punch our way through whatever we need to."

"But if you run into trouble…"

Leia's eyes narrowed. "You don't want your name associated with it, is that it?" she guessed.

"Oh now Mistress Leia, let's not assume…"

"We'll tell the Empire we stole it from you, if it'll make you feel better," Han snarled.

"Oh sure," Lando retorted, voice as venomous as Han's, "because they'll believe that-"

"We'll be jumping straight to the fleet's staging-point," Bail pointed-out reasonably. "We're not _going _to run into any Imperial entanglements between breaking atmo here and arriving there, Uncle Lando. You don't need to worry."

Lando shook his head. "Kid, I hate to break it to you but your parents can manifest Imperial entanglements like nobody in the galaxy-"

"Then the faster we leave, the sooner you can go back to sticking your head in the sand," Han snapped, even as Threepio said, "He does have a point, Captain Solo, Mistress Leia-" Han ignored the droid, raising his voice to add, "Or maybe up your own-"

"We don't have time for this!" Leia raised her voice to be heard over the growing argument as well as over the undercurrent of grumbles issuing from an increasingly annoyed-looking Chewbacca. "Coruscant is under attack and helpless and even at flank speed it'll take the fleet an hour to get there, and _us _almost twice as long to get to _them _. We need to leave _now_."

Lando's eyes darted between his old friends and the young Jedi he had once bounced on his knee and tried not to think about the fact that the last time he had felt this trapped, those same three old friends and their golden protocol droid had come limping into his city in the clouds in the same broken ship, trailing a dark cloak and a gloved fist that he still saw in his nightmares.

He wondered if his luck had finally run-out for good.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**THE SKIES ABOVE CORUSCANT, 40 YEARS ABE:**

Shuttles and snubfighters streamed from the hangers of the various Imperial capital ships: ferrying personnel and equipment to and from the planet, repairing the damage from the skirmish with Rogue Squadron, collecting debris and the dead, and dispatching troops and technicians to take control of Coruscant's satellites and defense systems.

BB-8 watched in lonesome silence from _The Malachor_'s hull. His magnetic lock on the ship would keep him attached under all but the most extreme of interstellar maneuvers and his own sensor profile was too small to register in any scan against the backdrop of that massive vessel. He was safe, but he was also alone. Worse than that, his pilot was in trouble.

(Poe was always getting in trouble whenever he didn't have BB-8 around to watch him.)

Spiraling his head around on his base like a human shaking out their muscles before a feat of strength, BB-8 girded his metaphorical loins and rolled forward across the hull. He ignored the ships passing overhead. The BB series was the smallest astromech yet designed and even the old, blocky Clone Wars-era models would have seemed like little more than a dustmote against the great pale bulk of a Super Star Destroyer.

Undetected, he rolled to the edge of the nearest hanger and leaned forward to peer inside. His head dome swiveled back and forth, tracking the passage of ships in and out of _The Malachor_'s cavernous maw. The little droid crept closer, wobbling on the very lip of the abyss-and then, as a squadron of TIE fighters screamed past with a wail, he rolled over the edge and disappeared within.

**ABOARD** **_THE MALACHOR_****, 40 YEARS ABE:**

At a mere 1.6 meters and 140 pounds, Darth Revan did not have a naturally imposing stature. Nonetheless, menace radiated off the lithe black-clad figure striding up the corridor of the Super Star Destroyer, bootheels ringing against the deckplates. In addition to the plated boots, Revan was dressed in layers of black robes and segments of metal armor supplemented with heavy belts criss-crossed in front of a red taberd. Two lightsaber hilts dangled from those belts along with a number of other, more sinister-looking objects. Revan's face was concealed by a visored mask that looked oddly reminiscent of the helmets worn by Mandalorian warriors, as though those had been a predecessor to its design-or perhaps the other way around; the red and black surface was heavily weathered and it was easy to believe that the mask was decades (or even centuries) old.

Revan moved with the ease and assurance of a young athlete however, setting a pace that the escort of the six taller stormtroopers trailing the Dark Lord were hard-pressed to match. Ignoring them, Revan waved a black-gloved hand at one of the matte-black doors-Cell 3827-that lined the narrow hallway. The slick black panel _swooshed _up, revealing a cramped room in which Breha Organa-Solo lay strapped to a torture couch.

The moment she saw Revan, Breha launched into a litany of uncomplimentary Huttese, Rodian, Devaronian, and Nikto. The young Jedi gave the impression that the only thing stopping her from adding Shyriiwook to the diatribe was the fact that her human voicebox was ill-equipped to make the necessary growls and yips. Revan tolerated the insults equanainably for several moments and then slashed a hand through the air.

"Enough."

Breha went silent, gasping. Her brown eyes widened with fear but the scowl she gave the Dark Lord was pure outrage.

"I commend your vocabulary," Revan continued, hand lowering again, "but I've lived too long to be moved by such petty barbs. Your insults waste both our time."

"I do have an urgent appointment elsewhere," Breha quipped. "So if you'll just undo these straps, we can both be on our way…"

"Regrettably, I fear you'll be delayed," said Revan, sounding amused. "But my associates and I will do our best to keep you entertained during your time here." Bootheels clicked again as Revan stepped forward, letting the door slide closed between the two Force users and the cluster of stormtroopers.

"Good, I hate being bored," Breha snapped, turning back and forth as best as her restraints would allow in an attempt to track that fluttering black cloak and opaque black visor as Revan circled her.

"Are Jedi allowed to hate now?" Revan asked lightly. "I have been away some time, perhaps things have changed."

"You think you're scaring me with this Dark Lord Revan act?" Breha retorted. "Because I know it's bantha _poodu_. Revan died centuries ago."

"Indeed?" said Revan, running an idle finger along the edge of the torture couch near Breha's arm. "At whose hand?"

Breha blinked, nonplussed. "I don't know," she admitted. "I'm not an historian."

"And yet you know of Revan."

"It's one of the stories they tell us in training, about the Jedi hero who fell to the Dark Side after getting too strong a taste for war." Breha arched an eyebrow. "It's a cautionary tale," she added, in case the Dark Lord was too obtuse to get the point. "Nobody wants to end up like Revan."

Revan laughed. "I think I'm flattered," was the chuckled response. "But if you remember the story, doesn't it 'end' with Revan venturing into the Unknown Regions to face some threat even more dire than that of the Mandalorian Wars? Why so unwilling to believe that I might be back?"

Breha snorted, unimpressed. "That was centuries ago. Whether by a lightsaber, a blaster bolt in the back, or simple old age there's no way Revan could still be alive today."

"The Dark Side is a pathway to many abilities that some consider...unnatural," Revan said cheerfully.

Breha frowned. "Well you'd better hope you've got a whole armory full of those," she said sharply. "It's the only way you're going to survive the beating that's coming your way as soon as the fleet gets here."

"And you, little Jedi?" Revan asked softly, leaning in so closely that Breha could see herself reflected in that cold black visor. "How are you going to survive what's coming to _you _next?"

Banter finally deserting her, Breha swallowed. "I trust in the Force," she whispered.

Revan laughed and reached for the controls of the torture couch. Waves of sharp blue lightning lashed across Breha's body as she thrashed, screaming.

**NORULAC, 40 YEARS ABE:**

"Yeah, okay," said Lando, his voice a mixture of reluctance and resignation as he turned and let the others to a hanger. "Follow me. You sure about leaving the _Falcon_, though?" he asked. "We have excellent repair facilities here, it won't take that long to put her back in flying order…"

"A minute ago you couldn't kick us off-world fast enough," Han retorted as Chewbacca grumbled above him. "Suddenly now that your name might be on the ship we take instead, you're all happy to wait while we get our ship fixed-up, huh?"

"You've got a lot of nerve-"

Suddenly Bail gave a little cry and doubled over. Han caught his son before the young Jedi could fall all the way to the permacrete underfoot and held him up, staggering slightly under the unexpected weight. Leia gasped and pressed both hands to her mouth, heedless of bacta patches or bandages. Instinctively, Lando reached out to steady her.

"Breha," Leia whispered.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**ABOARD ****_THE MALACHOR_****, 40 YEARS ABE:**

Screams echoed off the corridors of the Super Star Destroyer's detention level. Stormtroopers and Imperial Officers walking past marched quickly, spines stiff and eyes straight ahead as though trying to give the impression that they heard nothing. The two white-clad stormtroopers stationed on either side of the door to cell 3827 shifted nervously but dared not look at one another, nor at those who passed them.

Within the cell, the screams faded as Darth Revan twisted a dial on the torture couch where Breha Organa-Solo was strapped.

"That...that all you got?" Breha panted. Her pale face gleamed and her brown hair had gone dark with sweat. Blood from where she had bitten her lip trickled down her chin and her eyes were hollow, pained. They fell closed, fluttering in exhaustion as she sagged back against the couch. Still she managed a smirk. "I thought you were...supposed to be...some kind of Sith bigwig."

"Not exactly a Sith, no," Revan corrected in much the same tone that a school master might use to lecture their charges. "If you're going to join me, you'll have to learn to understand the nuances...but we can discuss that later, once you've had a chance to adjust your core ideals."

Breha's eyes shot open. "Join you?" she repeated. "Are you crazy? I'll never join you."

"We shall see," Revan said lightly and reached for the controls of the torture couch once more.

"Even if I was interested in the Dark Side-which I'm not," Breha said quickly, unable to stop her eyes flickering toward that black gloved hand and the dials that would send pain racing through her limbs again the moment they were twirled, "I wouldn't join forces with anybody who's as bad at strategy as you are."

Revan's hand lowered and the red helmet tilted curiously sideways. "Bad at strategy?" Revan repeated. "Interesting accusation. Do explain?"

Breha _huffed_. "Well just look at you," she said, jerking her chin in substitute for the sweeping hand gesture her restraints prevented. "You don't know how to prioritize. Your ships are out there assaulting Coruscant, the very heart of the New Republic, and where are you? In here, focusing on one lousy prisoner instead. That's bad tactics and you'll end up paying for it."

"My subordinates are quite capable," Revan replied mildly. "Certainly they can manage to pound a defenseless planet into submission without my peering over their shoulders."

"Until something goes wrong," Breha said shortly. "Then they'll be looking to their leader for orders, and where will you be?" She smirked. "Hanging around the detention block like a big useless lump of bad fashion choices."

Revan laughed and said, "Coruscant has no real means of fighting back. This 'assault' is just to sow fear, little Jedi-the planet is already mine. And by the time I land, every single sentient living there will know exactly whom to bow before-"

A hollow thumping reverberated through the ship, making the lights flicker and Revan stumble. Spinning around in a swirl of black cloth, Revan started toward the door but it whooshed open before the Dark Lord had taken more than two steps.

"Lord Revan," gasped the sweaty-faced Imperial ensign who all but fell through the opening, "it's the Republic Fleet, my lord-they're here!"

Breha broke into a rich, breathy peal of laughter. "How's that strategy going?" she asked.

Revan turned back and gave Breha an inscrutable look from across one black-cloaked shoulder. "Ahead of schedule, it seems. I wasn't expecting them for hours yet. How convenient, I can move up the time-table now." There was no way to see Revan's expression from beneath that weathered helmet, but something about the flicker of light against the smooth black visor gave off an impression of a grin. "I do so hate being bored."

Beckoning the young ensign to lead the way, Revan turned away from the disconcerted Jedi and strode out of the cell. The furious insults Breha spat at the two departing Imperials were cut-off by the cell door sliding shut once more.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**ABOARD ****_THE MALACHOR_**** , 40 YEARS ABE:**

Poe Dameron pounded at the door of his cell, first with fists and then with feet. The flat gray durastreel didn't so much as tremble. He scowled at all four walls of the tiny room, down at the useless dress boots on his feet, and up at the too-small-to-squirm-through air vents overhead. He returned his desperate attention to the door, shouting, "Rey! Kid! Hang on!" He punched, kicked, slapped, and slammed his shoulder against the door. It didn't move. "Hey! Hey, Imperial scum! Hey you listen to me! You want to torture somebody then you start with me, dammit! I'm the commander, you go through _me! _Leave her alone, you hear me? Hey! Breha! HEY!"

The door abruptly shot open, staggering Poe; a heavy gauntleted hand slapped him in the chest and propelled him backwards almost as quickly. The back of his legs collided with the edge of the cell's sparse bunk and the only reason he didn't go sprawling was because there wasn't enough room for him to do more than sit, abruptly and unintentionally, in a sort of breathless collapse.

The chrome-clad stormtrooper commander-_ Phasma, _Poe remembered, she was called _Phasma _-had to bend low to step through the door into his cell. She handed her blaster backwards and Poe caught a glimpse of two regular stormtroopers waiting in the hallway outside. One of them took her blaster and slung both it and his own weapon back against his white-armored shoulders.

Poe wondered why Phasma had divested herself of her weapon before entering a prisoner's cell-and then he looked at her again, looked _up _at her again, and realized that his best chance of overpowering her would have been to try and grab the blaster. Unarmed, even his Rogue's confidence didn't let him think he had much of a chance against this mountain of a soldier.

Right now the thinking part of Poe's brain wasn't in charge, though, so he launched himself off his feet and came in swinging.

Phasma caught his arm, swung him around like a ragdoll, and pinned him backwards against her broad and shiny chest. Poe tried to elbow her in the side and she laced her free arm through his, holding him up so that his toes barely brushed the ground. He took advantage of that to try kicking her in the knee but she rearranged her grip so her gauntleted forearm was pressed across his windpipe.

He gagged and swore, his cheeks going red as his body tried desperately to compensate for his suddenly reduced oxygen intake.

"Be quiet," Phasma said. Even accounting for the emotion-leeching quality of her helmet's filter, she sounded unmoved.

"Nnnn," Poe grunted. "Br-haaa…"

Phasma gave him a gentle shake, like one might use to get a naughty child's attention before they ran out into speeder traffic.

"Be grateful that the Dark Lord has not turned to you yet, pilot...and even more grateful that we haven't simply been told to space you." She didn't so much release him as fling him away from her.

Poe hit the bunk and the sloping wall behind it in something that was half-roll and half-tumble. He scrambled on hands and knees, panting hard, spinning back around to face her.

Phasma was staring down at him, blank-faced behind her helmet but somehow giving off the impression of a curious sentient studying a very strange, very small new bug. "I suppose Revan thinks you could have _some _value," she mused, sounding unconvinced even with her own words.

Outrage restored Poe's voice. "I'm the commander of Rogue Squadron!" he yelped. "I'm an extremely valuable and important prisoner!"

Phasma snorted.

Poe's cheeks colored. "And I'm the ranking New Republic officer on this ship, so if you scumsucking Huttspawn want to torture anybody, you start with me."

"You?" Phasma barked a laugh. "What good are you?"

"I-"

Phasma didn't let him answer; it hadn't been a question. "You don't have the Force. Your little pilot there does. _She _matters to Lord Revan. You?" The shiny helmet tilted sideways, as though Phasma was studying him from a fresh angle in hopes of seeing something better, then it shook side-to-side dismissively. "You don't have anything Revan wants."

She turned to go, all stiff chrome armor and heavy black cloak, reeking of confident disinterest; Poe Dameron dismissed from her mind as an inconsequential annoyance.

That was a mistake. "You don't have the Force either, do you?" Poe's words were also not a question. Phasma stopped, one hand on the edge of the open doorframe, her head already bowed in mid-exit, her shoulders going stiff beneath their heavy chrome cuirass.

Poe lounged back on the bunk as though it were a plush couch in a pirate's pleasure palace. The smirk on his face was the sly, triumphant expression of a snubjockey who knows his shot just hit home. "Jealous?" he asked lightly.

For a long, tight moment Phasma didn't move; didn't even seem to breathe. When she finally released her grip on the doorframe and turned back around to face him, the impression of her fingers remained dug into the durasteel. She stared down at Poe from behind her featureless black visor and said, her voice dripping with calm, "I rarely find myself jealous of tools, no. Especially knowing how quickly my Master tends to break them."

Poe's dark eyes flashed and his grin turned sharp and toothy. "Gonna find that hard to do with us," he retorted.

Phasma chuckled, a soft and chilling sound that seemed to crawl straight up Poe's spine and leave a coating of ice behind. "Darth Revan has been walking this path for thousands of years. Your little Jedi toy in there won't last a week."

"Thousands of years, sure." Poe rolled his eyes. "Maybe you should dial-down the brainwashing regimen; it sounds like you swallowed a little too much propaganda-punch there, Shiny."

"Hmm," was Phasma's only response-noncommittal, unimpressed, bored. A muffled buzz of communication passed between the two stormtroopers on guard duty and Phasma's head raised as though listening to something Poe couldn't hear. Without another word she turned and left the cell. The door swished shut behind her, leaving Poe alone in his solitary confinement.

As he stared after the wake of the departing troopers, his cocky smirk faded. He could no longer hear Breha screaming, but the silence still seemed to pulse with the echoes of her cries. Poe sat back gingerly on the flat black bunk, wincing at his fresh bruises, the defiant energy that had carried him through the confrontation with Phasma leeching away. In its wake he was left looking worried...and, somehow, old.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**NORULAC, 40 YEARS ABE:**

Han turned to gape at his wife, stricken, thinking the worst. It was Bail who croaked, "Rey's in pain. She's alive, but she's hurt." He managed to drag himself upright enough to look his father in the eye as Han turned back to stare at Bail. "I think...I think she's been captured." Bail forced himself to straighten and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. He didn't try and free himself from his father's arms.

Chewbacca let out a soft, anxious moan. Han shook his head. "Let the boy...let the boy think," he said. "Don't rush him." He immediately followed this good advice by asking, "Bail?"

Leia's eyes were closed too, her face strained; she didn't seem to notice that she had lowered her hands in front of her, or that Lando was holding them both in one of his own while his other arm braced her around her delicate shoulders. His eyes were large with fear, the whites standing out starkly against his brown cheeks.

"Captured...being hurt. Tortured." Bail's voice was a mere breath and Han held his in response, as though afraid that even exhaling might be distracting enough to break the tenuous connection between the twins. "She's on a ship...the Super Star Destroyer, I think. There's someone…" He frowned, hesitated. "Someone there...someone Dark."

His eyes opened. "I'm sorry," he said. He was panting and his face was pale and drawn with strain. "It's gone. We're too far away for me to sense any more."

"That's-that's fine, kid," Han said gruffly. He cleared his throat and patted his son's shoulder. "You did good."

"We have to rescue her," said Bail.

Han was already nodding; Chewbacca's emphatic bark beat his reassuring "We will, don't worry," by milliseconds.

"What do you need?" said Lando. All the hesitation was gone now, his face and his stance both firm and ready.

Han shot him a dark look. "You sure you want to be tangled up in this?" he asked nastily.

No one paid any attention to Threepio as he started to say admonishingly, "Now Captain Solo-"

Lando met his glare without flinching. "Of course I am."

"Changed your tune fast."

"This isn't politics, this is Breha. What can I do to help?"

"We do still need to contact the fleet," Leia pointed out. Her face was pained, almost apologetic.

"Give me the coordinates, I'll send someone I trust to carry the message."

Leia didn't look happy, but she nodded reluctantly.

"The rest of us need a way onto a Super Star Destroyer that nobody knew existed this time yesterday, right?" Lando continued.

This time they all nodded, Chewbacca underscoring the confirmation with a rumble.

Lando's smile seemed to be all teeth. "Follow me," he said.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**ABOARD ****_THE MALACHOR_**** , 40 YEARS ABE:**

The bridge of _The Malachor _was a model of Imperial efficiency and conformity: gray uniforms bustling around gray deckplates, working on gray consoles, exchanging gray datasticks with gray salutes, all suffused with an eerie homogeneity of species-humans, every last one of them. For a woman raised in the bustling and colorful galactIc melting pot of Coruscant, it was like something out of a dream...or a _nightmare _, the same nightmare her mother had been fighting since she was younger than Breha.

The only things that didn't fit the prim, stiff gray mold were Breha herself and her immediate captors: Darth Revan and his chrome-plated head trooper, Phasma. Revan led their little party onto the bridge, Phasma walking rear guard in stoic silence with a large blaster carbine held easily across her hips. Between them marched ten stark-white stormtroopers in neat two-columned lockstep, four ahead and four behind with two in the middle dragging Breha Organa-Solo between them.

Revan's black cloak and gleaming black helmet swooped into the scene like a great black bird of prey. The Sith Lord was physically dwarfed by the towering trooper captain but while Phasma was merely _large _the sense of menace radiated by Revan was infinite, its tendrils coiling off into every corner of the pristine Super Star Destroyer. Shadows unspooled like smoke, tipping the soft grays of Imperial design into darkness. Something like Revan had no place here, in this world of clean edges and firm lines and flat grays...except that wasn't true, was it? There had not been a Sith, a _true _Sith Lord, in the Empire in Breha's lifetime, but it was by Sith that the Empire had first been founded. Having Revan on this bridge was a return to Imperial roots.

Breha, by contrast, did not belong at all. Her eye-smarting orange dress uniform blazed like a bonfire in the center of the subdued and streamlined bridge, but it was a small fire-solitary. Surrounded by grays and blacks and whites, smothered by the colorless Imperial shades. Smothered...but never subdued.

"Jedi can sense fear too, you know," she observed, speaking loudly so that her voice would carry to the brisk officers working away dutifully as their motley little group marched past. "So that just leaves the question of whether these stormies here are more scared of you, or of me." Breha was more being dragged than she was walking, her upper arms gripped tight by a pair of stormtroopers and her polished dress boots sliding and stumbling across the smooth gray deckplates. Most of her weight was being supported by the stormtroopers, not her own feet; otherwise she would have dug her heels in already.

Her lower arms were encased in a more elaborate set of binders than any Breha had ever seen. They pinched her arms together at the wrists then separated to cover them separately almost up to her elbows. The bright white plasteel surface seemed to be made of the same material as stormtrooper armor, but it was supplemented by coiled wires and blinking diodes. Every few seconds at randomized intervals they released a mild electrical charge, shocking Breha-breaking her concentration enough to prevent her from using the Force. She had to assume that that was the purpose for which they had been designed, and tried not to shudder at the thought of an Imperial storeroom full of the things, waiting to be clamped around the frontal appendages of every Jedi in the New Republic.

She wondered if Imperial homogeneity extended to prisoner restraints; did they only have Force Binders designed for humanoids, or could Imperial engineering take other species into account as long as it was for purposes of subjugation? Either way, it wasn't a comforting thought.

To assuage her own fears, she poked at the stormtroopers' instead.

"It's a pretty sad state of affairs when a helpless prisoner in chains is enough to get your big tough soldiers quaking in their little white booties," she taunted. "You sure you should trust them with me, Revan? I might shout 'boo' and send them running for an escape pod."

The stormtroopers did not visibly react to Breha's mockery, although the one on her right tightened his grip slightly. The other seemed to be trembling under her armor-but that might have been wishful thinking on Breha's part; it was hard to distinguish motion that small from the regular rumble of ship's engines under their feet. Breha wondered what would happen if she gave them a quick Force shove-but then the cuffs on her wrists sparked, sending current through her blood and making her body twitch. She grunted in discomfort that didn't _quite _cross into the realm of pain, but came very close.

Revan didn't turn around to look at her. "They will do as they are commanded." The Sith Lord sounded amused. "As, eventually, will you."

Breha barked a laugh. "Small chance of that. You know they don't call us Rogue Squadron because of how good we are at _following _orders, right?"

Revan shrugged. "It hardly matters. Rogue Squadron is no more. And soon, your Republic will follow."

Breha opened her mouth for a sharp retort but just then her escort jerked her to a stop at the front of the bridge. She could see the city-covered world below through the Super Star Destroyer's large viewport. Her eyes grew wide as she stared at the battle filling the skies above Coruscant. "The Fleet!" she cried softly to herself, hope welling in her breast. "Jaen made it-or Lesso. Someone." A crooked, cocky grin spread over her face and she raised her voice again.

"You're in for it now, your Sithiness," she crowed.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**NORULAC, 40 YEARS ABE:**

Lando led the way through the luxurious hallways of his resort at a hurried pace that had his glittering cloak flapping behind him like the bright after-image of a flare, dazzling the eyes. None of the Solos seemed dazzled, though; rather grim and fixated as they followed the former general. He was talking as he walked, easily balancing the smooth patter of his voice with the haste of his steps:

"-take you there myself. I'll send word to the Fleet with someone I trust, you don't need to worry about that, princess. They'll be warned."

"Thank you," Leia said. She still looked torn between her competing duties as senator and mother, but she voiced no opposition to Lando's plan.

"Who you gonna send?" Han asked. "They'd better be a hotshot flyer, there's no time for dawdling."

"Don't worry." Lando flashed his teeth in a short, sharp grin over his shoulder at his oldest friend. "I have just the pilot in mind, and she's fast enough to give even your tall-tales a run for your money."

"Hey," Han protested, "I've never claimed so much as a klick more than I flew. You're the one who inflates the numbers when you brag about-"

Chewbacca's roar shut them both up, Lando smirking and Han scowling. Beside his father, Bail sighed and shook his head with an expression of long-suffering patience at odds with his youthful features. The doors ahead _wooshed- _open at Lando's quick prodding of the lock sensor, revealing exterior air and another landing platform. A sleek silver ship roughly half the length of the _Millennium Falcon _sat docked at the far end, its crystal-clean carapace glinting like diamonds in the sinking afternoon light.

"Well regardless," Lando said smoothly, leading the way to the elegant ship, "she'll get the message there. And meantime, we'll be on our way to-"

"Coruscant!"

A stunning young woman with short, tight curls and wide eyes clattered down the spaceship's boarding ramp. She was dressed even more elegantly than Lando in azure shimmersilk with silver chromasheath boots that reached nearly to her knees and a cerlin half-cape that concealed the slim blaster belted at her waist. She came up to them at a run, catching Lando's arm to stop herself, but it was Leia on whom her eyes were fixed.

"There's a battle. At Coruscant. It's all over the Holonet."

Leia nodded grimly. "We know, Stella. The Imperials ambushed the peace talks."

"I'm sending you to get word to the New Republic fleet so they can stage a counter-assault," Lando said, wrapping his arm around the younger woman's shoulders and dropping a kiss to her forehead; Stella Calrissian was half his age, a handspan shorter, and her silky-smooth skin was several shades darker than his, but there was no mistaking the resemblance between father and daughter-and not just because of the cape. Both Calrissians possessed the same easy grace and confidence that had once conned an entire floating city into accepting Lando as their baron administrator and that currently assured wealthy vacationers that the Tendrando Mountain Resorts and Casino was the best place in the galaxy at which to be parted from their credits.

Stella ignored her father, shaking her head at Leia. "The fleet's already there-that's what I'm saying. There's a full-fledged battle over Coruscant right now."

Han and Leia shared a look as Bail gasped and Chewbacca barked an exclamation of surprise that all but drowned-out Threepio's cry of, "Thank the Maker!"

"One of the Rogues must have got through," Leia said. Some of the tension in her shoulders eased.

Han's bleak expression perked-up hopefully. "Rey?" he asked.

Leia and Bail shook their heads in unison. "She's definitely captured," Bail confirmed.

Han sagged. Stella's anxious frown furrowed further with confusion and dismay. "What?" she said. "Breha, captured? By the Empire?"

Bail shrugged. "Details are hazy."

"We have to rescue her then," said Stella.

"That's the plan, sweetie," said Lando, squeezing her shoulder. "The Solos, Chewbacca, and I are going to take the _Lady Luck _and go get the information we need to find her. Since the fleet's already on station, I want you to stay here and make sure that our guests don't panic and start cancelling their plans when they hear about-"

"Don't be ridiculous," Stella interrupted, pushing his arm away and turning to walk back up the boarding ramp. "I'm coming with you."

Lando looked stricken. "But...but someone has to manage things here…"

"That's what we pay the staff for, dad," Stella retorted, not bothering to turn around. "Rey's more important."

"It'll be dangerous, though!"

Stella was already out of sight; her answering shout emerged from the hatchway: "Good thing the _Lady Luck _is armed, then! Now stop wasting time and get onboard!"

Han raised an eyebrow at Lando. "You heard her," he said, motioning toward the ship.

Chebacca barked agreement as Leia and Bail led the way inside, Threepio tottering behind. Lando, the look on his face one of resigned torment, shook his head and followed.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**ABOARD ** ** _THE MALACHOR_ ** **, 40 YEARS ABE:**

"Am I?" Darth Revan began to laugh. "Look again, young Jedi."

The sharp words she had meant to speak died on Breha's tongue as she stared out at the sight before her. The New Republic fleet had indeed arrived: bulbous and beautiful Mon Calamari cruisers, sturdy old Corellian corvettes, tiered Nebulon frigates, blocky dreadnaughts; darting amidst them all were squadrons of X-Wings and A-Wings and B-Wings and E-Wings, even a few aging but reliable Y-Wings…

And all of them so, so hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned by the mass of Imperial ships opposing them.

Breha had never seen an Imperial fleet like this. Had more ships arrived since she had been taken captive, or had she just been too focused on her immediate flight path to take-in the extent of the fleet before? She didn't know. All she knew was that for the first time, she understood the phrase _ overwhelming Imperial might_.

This must have been what it was like for the old Rebellion, in the days when the Empire had been a galaxy-spanning enterprise opposed only by a rag-tag army held together by spacetape and spit more than by durasteel and laser charges.

Even that wasn't an accurate comparison, though, because the New Republic fleet here in battle was no rag-tag ramshackle army of rebels...and yet still, they were overwhelmed by the Imperial forces around them. As Breha watched, another Nebulon frigate snapped in two, gouts of flame issuing from its splintered decks before it was wiped from view by a massive explosion.

Breha raised her cuffed hands to her mouth in horror. "No," she whispered. "That's impossible. The Imperial Remnant doesn't have that much firepower…"

"It does now," Revan said calmly. "And it is a remnant no more."

Much as she wanted to, Breha couldn't argue.


End file.
